


Don't Forget Me

by Rising_Eagle (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Internalized racism, Jotun Loki (Marvel), Jotun Odin (Marvel), M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg Thor (Marvel), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Rising_Eagle
Summary: Odin was just a small boy.He was too young to comprehend why his mother left, but old enough to know what he was told: Jotuns were monsters. Bestla may have been his mother, but she was also a Jotun, and a traitor to the crown. The questions surrounding his abandonment would always plague him, but - little did he know - his past would come back to haunt him.





	1. Chapter 1

Bor was formidable.

He stood regal and in full armour. Odin noted the horns on his helmet, reminiscent of the Jotun form that was so intertwined with the Asgardian culture, and they ran down his shoulders like large locks of hair. The beard on his chin was long and rough, pulled together at the ends into a strange and intricate braid. It made him look special. Odin struggled to turn his eyes away from the furs on his shoulders and the scuffs to his armour . . .

This was his hero. This was a man that commanded an empire. He stepped towards the throne, while tiny fists rubbed at chubby cheeks, and he noted how Bor stared down at him with cold blue eyes and lips pursed into a thin line, until wrinkles deepened about his flesh. The grand hall was warmer than usual; shutters remained closed on the windows, while fires raged at all corners with crackling flames, and – while the nobles stood tall and proud – Odin moved from foot-to-foot with a sticky sweat. He choked out in a mumbled voice:  

“Where is Momma?”

Bor parted his legs and steeped his fingers, while he narrowed his gaze over Odin, until – with a shiver – Odin lowered his head and kicked at the tiles underfoot, desperate for a distraction from the analytical gaze that seemed to penetrate every inch of skin. It only served to make him feel further an outsider. The blue flesh was covered with sweat, while his blond hair clung to the ridges on his forehead, and he knew no one else suffered with the heat, instead relishing in the warmth and comfort. Bor rolled his eyes with a loud scoff.

“Your mother is a traitor,” said Bor.

Odin flinched. He stared back with wide eyes and open mouth, while he looked at the faceless crowd of nobles that stood in close proximity to Bor, and yet not one single mouth revealed any sign of emotion . . . no smiles, no frowns, no yawns . . . the words hung heavy in his mind, as he tried to process the information. The room spun around him, until his head grew light and he swayed where he stood. Odin fought to answer back.

It was if the world had tilted on the side, as he lost all balance and fell onto the tiles. A sharp pain ran through his hip and eyes watered and lips trembled, until he pulled himself up into a cross-legged position and rubbed awkwardly at his face in an attempt to brush away the tears, and yet his one source of comfort was gone. The men would not comfort him. Bor would not hold him. It was difficult to see through tears and fear, as he gulped down the air and choked on nothing but saliva, and he shook his head over and over and over.

“I want my momma,” said Odin.

“Your mother rejoined her kin, my son.” Bor curled his lip. “Bestla has abandoned those to which she pledged her life, and instead swore allegiance to those that would do us harm. I have been left with you in my care. You are my heir, son; I will make sure you _never_ become like those monsters, and I will make sure you are protected from their cruel natures.”

“Momma isn’t cruel,” murmured Odin. “Momma loves me.”

“ _That woman has sided with the Jotun!_ In this war between our worlds, she has chosen to reject her husband and abandon her son. Do those sound like the actions of a woman that loves you? Do not be foolish, my boy. You were nothing to her. _We_ were _nothing_!”

Bor slammed a fist on the throne. The sound echoed out about the hall, hurting the ears of all in the vicinity, and – when he lifted his hand – the skin was pink and grazed from the violence of his action. Odin said nothing, even as Bor stood with head held high. He simply listened as loud footsteps filled the hall, along with the familiar clinking and clanking of armour in movement, while a long cape swept out from behind Bor and wavered in the air until he finally came to a stop just a few inches from Odin. He stopped.

Odin stared at the boots before him, as he traced the patterns with his eyes, and he wished he could lose himself in the image of Jotuns and Asgardians side-by-side, like when he played in the snow with distant cousins and old friends. He sniffed and sobbed, as he felt his mother’s absence as keen as a missing limb, only for Bor to let out a guttural growl and lean forward, until his callused fingers touched on the blonde locks of hair. Bor spat out:

“You will thank me for this change.”

A familiar tingle of _seiðr_. It washed over him, until every inch of blue skin prickled and shivered, as an array of goosebumps transformed otherwise smooth skin into a rough expanse, and slowly – like water down a drain – the colour was drained from his flesh. The blue that always reminded him of his momma was gone . . . eradicated . . . the _seiðr_ came to a stop and he raised his hands with a sickening sense of dread. Bile rose to his throat.

 _These were not his hands_! They were the hands of an Asgardian, meaning – with hair and eyes and features – he now looked like his father . . . _too much like his father_. . . there was nothing left of his mother except a few stray remnants . . . soft cheekbones, plump lips, a rounder face . . . he would have to search for her now in the mirrors. Odin tasted tears on his lips, as he sobbed and looked back to the faceless crowd, but now he saw the change . . . _smiles_. . . they were happy he was different. They were happy. Bor whispered to him:

“Go back to your rooms, boy.”

Odin stood shakily with blurred vision. There was no offer to help him, even as Bor stood with arms folded and eyes cast forward, and – before he could even turn around – he heard the doors of the hall thrown wide and a cool draught blow through the hall. No one mentioned Fárbauti. He wondered if Bestla had taken her away . . . an heir to a king, a daughter to a woman . . . Odin lowered his head to hide his shame and fear, as he turned his back on the court. He walked away. He prayed they would not see his pain.

* * *

Odin wiped at his eyes.

The tears stung and mixed with his sweat. They blurred his vision, until the full moon and stars became shimmering beacons in the night, and – as he sniffed and drew in a choked breath – he pressed his bare forehead to the cold glass. He raised a hand and touched at the condensation, while his lips trembled and his body grew weak. Odin lowered his gaze. The gate to the courtyard was still closed and still locked, with no sign of any disturbance.

He fidgeted on his bed, as he struggled to keep his strength. It took all the energy in his muscles to hold his body upright, as he pressed his forearm on the windowsill and blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but no one appeared. A clock chimed in the distance. He counted the rings . . . ten, eleven twelve . . . no, she would not come after midnight. Odin ran his arm under his nose, as he sniffed and sobbed, before he pushed himself away from the windowsill and plopped down onto the bed, and crawled to the to top by the headrest.

It took a few seconds to find his quill.

Odin pulled it from beneath the pillow, before he climbed off the bed. He padded along the bedroom floor to the _en suite_ door, and – standing on tiptoes – reached as high as he could to the calendar that hung against the wood. A cross marked off today’s date. It was the fourteenth cross in a row, with the huge anxiety that more crosses would be to follow. There were butterflies in his stomach, while his skin broke into a cold sweat and his head grew light, and he hunched his shoulders with another sniff. He crawled back over to bed.

“Boy? I hear footsteps. Are you awake?

Terror coursed through him. Odin scrambled to climb into bed, as he panted for breath and struggled to hold down his lunch, and – throwing the sheets over him – he pulled them up to his chin and held them as tightly as he could in tiny fists. He scrunched shut his eyes and buried his head into the pillows; footsteps slowed outside the bedroom door, it creaked open with a familiar sound, and a light flickered into life. Odin stayed still. He froze.

“You are asleep, yes?”

Odin said nothing. There was a long silence, until a loud sigh penetrated the room, and – finally – the light was turned out and darkness restored, while the door closed and Odin was left alone once more. He missed the hugs. He missed the stories. Odin sniffed and looked to his window, where the moon stood high in the sky and shone down a bright light on him, and he knew . . . he knew . . . wherever she was that she looked at the same stars. He smiled weakly until the tears spilled from his eyes and saturated his pillow.

Odin wept in earnest.

* * *

“Bestla is dead.”

The words cut deep. Odin brought a trembling hand to his bearded chin, as the armour about his frame grew too heavy a burden to bear, and he struggled to control each and every breath, as he was brought back to that moment decades ago . . . he had lost her again. Old wounds were wrenched open. Tears threatened to spill. He closed his eyes and listened to his racing heart, before he found courage to stand straight and lock eyes with Bor upon the throne.

It was difficult to endure the stench of paint, as men climbed the scaffolds around the main hall, and – every few minutes – splashes of liquid would fall from the ceiling like rain, as the images of two familiar Jotun faces were erased from view. A few fires raged in the corners, where scholars and librarians took piled parchments and cast them into the flames, while a variety of Jotun heirlooms and antiques lay ready for destruction. He saw the furs from Fárbauti’s bed and leather accessories from Bestla’s closet. Nothing would survive

Odin turned his gaze to the burning portraits. The image was one he strove to commit to memory, but already the fiery edges closed further and further around a beautiful blue face, until all that was left was ash and dust. Odin brought a soft hand to his chest, as he thought back to snippets of nursery rhymes and the cool touch of blue lips on his forehead . . . no chance of a reunion, no opportunity for reconciliation . . . Odin whispered:

“My mother is dead?”

Bor turned his back on Odin. He walked away with strong and study footsteps, with hands clasped behind his back, and Odin struggled to keep up with his pace, especially as his stomach churned and acid burned at the back of his throat. The nobles parted before them, while servants bowed deep in deference, and yet there was not a single blue face to be seen, even as he searched in the searing heat of the halls for one sign this may yet prove untrue. It could be that his mother lived or his sister returned, but yet he knew it was a false hope.

“What about Fárbauti?” Odin asked.

“Bestla brokered a deal with their king.” Bor spat at the floor. “Laufey Einarsson has married Fárbauti and Fárbauti has chosen to bear him an heir. Do not pay it any further mind, son; after all, how can you have lost a sister when you _have_ no sister? I have disowned that ungrateful child and she will be written out of how history. I will endure her no longer.”

“Can I not mourn for my mother? Will there be no memorial?” Odin swallowed hard. “I am still allowed to visit the sister that no longer exists, correct? I need to know how Mother died, Father. Did she die in battle? Did she die of grief for the child abandoned? Why did she –”

“What does it matter, my son?”

“It matters as she left me here with no further word. I have lived my life constantly wondering why my sister was worth more, whether I was a bad child or an unworthy child or a child who was simply inferior to the one chosen! Did she ever love me? Did she fall out of love with me? In these two decades, why was the simple act of a letter too much a chore?”

Bor stopped before his throne; the hall was awash with muttered whispers and stolen glances, as each and every person turned their heads towards their king, and Odin – with head hung low – realised his voice grew too loud for the accepted decorum. He brought his hands to his mouth and cupped them over his lips, as he took in a deep breath and lowered them with a long sigh, but his thoughts were too scattered . . . too lost . . . too many questions competed for attention, even as Bor turned to face him and sat with his usual elegant grace.

“Do not blame yourself,” whispered Bor. “It was the Jotun that corrupted Bestla.”

“Why is it that I could not _save_ her?”

“You cannot save a person from their true nature. This is a lesson you must learn as king, for the Jotun are a barbaric race that will wage war until the day you stop them, and it will be _your_ foot on _their_ throats that silences their wretched tongues. Bestla succumbed to her nature and stole away your sister, but you are better than that woman. Do not succumb.”

It was a futile warning. Odin could not help but to think to his childhood, where better behaviour or greater character could have convinced her to stay, and instead he allowed her to slip from his life . . . fall into the Jotun clutches . . . ‘succumb’ to her nature. He raised a hand and looked to the white skin, but – despite appearances – he felt the sticky sweat that clung between his digits and followed always from the muggy climate. It was his nature, too.

A strange look must have marred his expression, as Bor stood and clapped a hand hard on his shoulder with a loud slapping sound, and – as Odin jolted under the pressure – Bor forced a bright and wide smile that cracked the lines at the corner of his eyes. He squeezed and lightly shook Odin, before he brought his hands to his hips and cast his eyes high to the ceiling above them. It drew Odin’s eye in turn. He struggled to focus at first, but soon saw men painting a new mural where Odin stood with white skin beside a proud father. Bor swore:

“You are an Asgardian, Odin.”

Odin parted his lips with an unsaid retort. He saw the rare smile that graced regal lips, along with unshed tears that threatened to fall with pride, and a rift of emotion tore through him, splitting apart pity from fury as he brought his hand to his chest. It helped to rub at his heart, as if he might be able to reach through his ribs and ease the organ. Bor caught sight of the gesture. The smile turned into a curled lip, while his head lifted high enough to cast shadows under his eyes, and Odin at once fell to his knees and said in a low voice:

“I will do you proud, Father.”

He masked the involuntary reflex with a show of strength. Odin clenched his fist and bowed his head, as he strove to give the impression that the bow was intended all along, and – with a barely audible sigh of relief – he stood once Bor signalled him to rise with gentle laughter. A pair of hands clasped around his cheeks, holding him close with warm and callused fingers. Bor leaned ever closer and said with a voice barely a whisper:

“I know you will, boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Odin heard laughter . . .

He stopped with mead midway to his mouth. It was a beautiful sound, like notes of music sang by heavenly creatures from afar, and it drew his attentions far across the hall, beyond the monotonous clatter and inane chatter of the masses. Odin lowered his mug and furrowed his brow, while men and women danced around him in time to the music, but the source of the laughter remained hidden to his eyes and lost out of sight. He heaved a long sigh.

A rich aroma drifted from the tables laden of food, where they lined the walls with an array of men and women piling their plates higher than hunger justified, and – as he scoffed at their greed – he turned and walked away from the crowds. The laughter stopped, but so did the song that emanated from the orchestra on the open balconies. Odin barely noticed as Baldur came to his side. The younger man bore a strong familial resemblance, enough that it was clear they shared the same father, but there was something missing . . . something _different_.

It served only as a reminder of Fárbauti’s absence.

Odin knew that his mother may have been replaced, but – as he caught again the soft laughter – he realised that some things could _not_ be replaced. The sound was too gentle, too high-pitched over the low and burly murmurings of various officials. Baldur stood beside Odin at the far rear of the room, on a raised platform away from the dance floor, while behind them people clamoured and clawed at the exotic cuisine. Odin continued to search the crowd with a hard gaze, as he blindly reached for Baldur in an attempt to grab his attention, and asked:

“Do you know who laughs with that beautiful voice?”

“There are too many people to tell,” said Baldur.

It was not the answer he wanted. The truth was that the men would linger all night, desperate to catch sight of Bor Burison and gain his favour through trivial acts, and the women would drift in and out . . . _brief socialisations, long dances, friendly walks_. . . Odin vaguely recalled his mother hosting private parties for friends alongside this state occasions. It was why his eye moved to an alcove with a small group, as memories of his mother returned . . .

“There,” gasped Odin. “That one there!”

He slapped hard at Baldur’s arm, until Baldur spilled his drink with a curse. The women were gathered on a low wall that encircled a marble fountain, with a few splashing each other with water and a few bending low to sip from the crystal clear liquid, and together they laughed and shared jests and pointed towards the men that kept away from the dances, as if it were a novelty to see their self-conscious or indifferent natures. One laughed the loudest.  

It was a woman dressed in a long blue gown, that – while tight about her waist – remained loose about her hips and arms, and Odin smiled to notice that it covered all skin while still showcasing her desirable frame, as she sat gracefully with hands on her lap and legs folded at the ankles to the side. He watched as she hid her mouth behind a manicured hand with every laugh that erupted from plump lips, while blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder in a beautiful manner, which may have drawn the eye to other places with another male.

Odin could not look away from her eyes. They were such a striking shade of blue, while so expressive and so filled with tears of joy, and he noticed how the other women teased or chastised that she showed such emotion, even as she laughed all the harder at the one closest to her that whispered into her ear some scandalous anecdote. Baldur followed his gazed and rolled his eyes, as he slapped away Odin’s hand and said with a smile:

“Ah, that is Frigga Fjörgynsdóttir.”

“Frigga,” whispered Odin. “The name is as beautiful as the lady to whom it belongs. Do you know our father seeks for me to find a wife? It is time to provide an heir. I have argued that two-thousand years is still so young, but Father was just a thousand years of age when he met and married my mother . . . I could easily see Frigga as a grand queen.”

“You would marry someone you do not know?”

“I know she is a carefree soul, as I see not a single frown line. I know she is conscious of her appearance, but not vain or obsessed, as her clothes are traditional and not of the latest fashions. I know she is a social soul, but only with a few close friends, and she longs for something greater and wishes for someone to ask her to dance.”

“You know all that from a mere glance?” Baldur laughed and shook his head. “If you ask me, she gazes out into the crowd simply from contempt. I know I cannot bear to look at the false niceties and choreographed routines. Where is the spontaneity? Where is the life?”

“Where is the appreciation of tradition?”

Odin cast Baldur a cold glare. Baldur simply laughed and raised his half-empty mug in mock salute, before he downed the rest of its contents and slammed it down onto a tray of a passing servant, as Odin crossed his arms and stood with head held high. It would be easy to chastise his half-brother about his many conquests and preference of battle over politics, but the truth was that not all were born to be king and some were born to lead in other ways.

He looked again to Frigga, as many of the women left through adjacent doors. A couple of her friends remained, although one was whisked away to dance with a Vanir nobleman, and he wondered why she denied to dance with all the men that asked, as she would constantly raise her hand with a smile and shake her head. Frigga was a mystery. This was a woman that could have had any or all men in the grand hall, but yet was content merely to watch and be watched, and Odin lowered his head with a furrowed brow at the distance between them.

“Oh, do stop pining,” chided Baldur. “Ask her to dance.”

Odin turned red. He stared with wide eyes to Baldur, as his mouth opened and closed with half-formed words, and Baldur could only laugh and slap a hand on his back, as if his response were the most amusing sight ever seen. The music picked up in speed, until the couples below darted to and fro before Frigga, and each time she vanished from sight – as the dancers blocked her from his eyes – a part of his stomach would sink and churn, until a cold sweat swept over him. He struggled to mutter out the awkward confession:

“A woman like that would not notice me.”

“Well, she has noticed you staring,” said Baldur. “I do not think she has looked away from you since she noticed your eye . . . look, even her friend has started to nudge her and giggle like a banshee at her side! If you wanted a fun night, this may be the one.”

“I want more than a ‘fun night’. I want a queen I may love.”

“No woman would deny the chance to be queen, either.”

Odin locked gazes with Frigga. It was impossible to put into words . . . _a spark, a secret ‘I know you know I know’, a burst of fear and passion merged together_. . . the desire in her eyes was obvious, but the idea of reciprocation chilled him to his core. He lifted his hand and flexed his callused fingers, as he bit his lip on the sight of the white skin, and – with a shuddered sigh – he lowered his hand and moved awkwardly at the sensation of sweat under his armour, now hyper-aware about his true nature. Odin shook his head.

“Frigga is Asgardian, Baldur,” said Odin.

“You are not?” Baldur teased.

“You know full well that my blood is mixed, Brother. Frigga could have any man that she so desires, including royalty or noble blood that is . . . _pure_ in nature. Do you mean to say that you would not agree to wed such a woman were she to show interest?”

Baldur pulled a face and shook his head. Odin simply scoffed, aware that the idea of chastity was as abhorrent to Baldur as intercourse before marriage was to Odin, but – even despite the instinctual reaction – he saw how Baldur cast his eye across the room and muttered out a ‘huh’, as he shrugged his shoulders and conceded the point without words. The simple truth was that any man would kill for a woman like Frigga, and that Frigga could have any man of any station that crossed her path. Odin closed his eyes and said with a sigh:

“Frigga will not want me.”

* * *

Frigga stood far in the distance. The wind swept at her hair and brought long locks before her face, as she smiled and hummed a low tune, and her soft fingertips would brush over the petals of every flower as she walked through the gardens. Odin watched as her skirts caught against the dew-stained grass, leaving a darker hue along the hem, while her blue eyes reflected back the sky from above with every glance upward. He smiled.

The heavy load of the bilgesnipe brought pain to his shoulder, even as he hiked it higher with a loud grunt, and – as she caught the sound – he blushed to see her turn in his direction, where she smiled and gave a slight wave. He smiled in turn and dropped the deceased animal down onto the grass, as he stood with foot slammed onto its carcass. Frigga rolled her eyes and shook her head. A stab of shame overcame him, as he lowered his head and furrowed his brow, but soon Frigga came over to investigate the rewards of his hunt. Frigga asked:

“You know I am your junior?”

Frigga knelt gracefully down to inspect the creature, as she ran a hand over its hide and made sounds of interest at the quality of its remains. . . Odin flushed red, while he strove not to fidget or make aimless small-talk, but he knew that the attempt to remain regal and stoic would not impress a woman who prided herself on honesty and openness. Frigga rose and reached out to him, where she brushed away some perceived dust or dirt on his chest armour, even as such a speck evaded his vision and he had to hold his tongue in question.

“I am nine-hundred this month,” said Frigga.

“Is that so?” Odin asked. “You seem so mature in spirit.”

A gentle laugh escaped her lips, but there was no hint of maliciousness. He narrowed his eyes and bit into his tongue, as he sought to decipher why someone would laugh before him and not be laughing at him, unless it was the feigned laugh of a courtier who strove to leave an impression without risking the wrath of Bor at the perceived slight of a prince. Odin instinctively lifted his hand towards hers, only to blush ever redder as she moved her hand away just a second too soon for his to meet, and instead masked the movement as a scratch at his neck. Frigga caught the movement and asked in a warm voice:

“You have little experience with women, do you?”

“Did I offend you in some way?”

“Not at all,” teased Frigga. “I simply noticed that you boast the biggest kill after every hunt, while you always ‘coincidentally’ appear at the same places as myself, and your clothing lately has turned more to ornamental armour than practical attire. If you are trying to impress me, you already have my attention. Now what will you do to _hold_ my attention?”

Odin pressed his lips into a tight line. He remembered well the advice of his father and brother . . . _‘do not gape like a fish, for you are a king and not a commoner’_ . . . it helped him in moments of great political intrigue among the court, but before Frigga he feared he appeared nervous and vulnerable. Frigga leaned towards him and pushed a lock of his blond hair behind his ear, before she slid away towards a stone bench centre of the gardens, and – with a gentle tap – she gestured for him to join her at his side. He obliged.

“I know what people say,” said Frigga.

“What do they say?”

“They say that any woman would desire to be a queen.” Frigga tilted her head with a smile. “I have heard a few say that I keep my distance solely to keep my reputation. I have heard others say that I tease and torment so as to entrap my catch. I do not care what they think.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” murmured Odin.

“I mean to say that I only care what _you_ think, but that I am no easy catch and I do not believe that you have ever shared so much as a greeting with any other woman, and – as such – I would like to take this potential relationship at a slow pace. I want to see whether you hold depth beyond the enigma you present, and whether I can be enough for you.”

Odin raised his hands, only to struggle to work out what to do with them, and slowly lowered them to the soft and rounded stone of the bench, as he lowered his head and stared at the grass under his feet, but his mouth ran dry as Frigga mimicked the gesture and their pinkie fingers lay a mere few millimetres from contact. He could feel the warmth from her digit, even as he prayed she would not feel the cold in turn, and his heart raced within his chest in a manner that never came with battle or politics. He faced her with a gentle expression.

“You will always be enough for me,” swore Odin.

“You are in love with the _idea_ of me, my prince.” A twinkle came across Frigga’s eye. “Do you think you could love the reality of who I am? I was raised in the noble ranks. I know how to hide behind a façade; I remember the right fork to use, I remember the right colour to wear in which season, and I remember what titles to use for people I have yet to meet, but whose faces I have been forced to memorise. This is merely an act for other actors.

“Can you abide a woman with strong opinions? Can you endure a woman that has learnt to fight like any man? I will not hold my tongue around you, although I may temper it, and I will not expect anything less than passion and compassion behind closed doors, so I will not be locked away as a mere trophy to be displayed on special occasions. Is this acceptable?”

“I – that is – I mean – I did not consider –”

“We both hold hidden depths. I have thorns that I must keep hidden, whereas you have a soft soul that you strive to mask with indifference, but – together – perhaps we can be _complete_ and more than the sum of our parts. We can both be soft and hard. We can be the paradoxes that would confound the world, but . . . understood by each other.”

Frigga raised a hand and twirled her fingers. It was a strange gesture, one that caught his attention and kept his eyes fixed on every movement, but something changed . . . a flicker in the air, a glitter that rained down . . . it was the mark of one who mastered _seiðr_. Frigga caught his wide-eyed wonder, as she worked the light into an illusion of a warrior riding on horseback, before she closed her hand in a gentle gesture and the image vanished.

He admired her talents, enough that he instinctively reached to the dissipating specks, and they tingled and tickled his skin with an all too familiar touch, as he smiled and pulled back his hand to look at her with absolute wonder. Frigga blushed and turned her head away, as she brushed lightly at her neck almost to hide herself from his gaze, and he blushed again to see her modesty and how she worried about his reaction, as if she were not his better. Frigga licked at her lips and drew in a deep breath, as she whispered out:

“I am yours to command, if you find strength to command it.”

Odin opened and closed his mouth in awe. He saw how she half-turned her head, with eyes already watering from half-embarrassment and half-fear, and – as his heart raced – he noticed her cheeks reddened as she awaited a reply to her expression of desire. Odin swallowed back the lump forming in his throat . . . _longing to hold her, fear of harming her_. . . he jerked back his hand to his chest and felt at the cold flesh, as he screwed shut his eyes and muttered:

“I – I must leave, I apologise.”

He jumped to his feet and continued to struggle for words; there was no missing the hurt expression upon her face, although she seemed to quickly notice the fear and panic writ all over him, and – as her expression softened – he caught something akin to concern. Odin stumbled backward, while his _seiðr_ danced around him and protected the illusion of his true form, and for a terrifying moment he wondered whether she sensed the _seiðr_ and knew the truth of his condition. Odin did something he had never before done: he fled.

* * *

Odin breathed deep.

The scent of the flowers drifted strong from the bouquet, each one from the royal gardens and each one carefully chosen for the ‘language’ of the breed, and he smiled to see that the ‘story’ told spoke of love and devotion and apologies, with a scattering of her favourite flowers thrown in to enhance the overall aroma. He bent low and placed the bouquet on the stone steps to her home, where he gently slid a card inside the foil that wrapped the stems. It was a small gesture, but there was no denying her love for nature. A voice called from inside:

“Is someone there?”

Odin stepped back as the door opened. He flushed red to see Frigga dressed only in a long dressing gown and night-dress, as she wrapped her arms about her waist to further maintain her modesty and keep the garments pressed close to her frame, and he licked at his lips from sheer instinct at the beautiful sight she presented. The long locks of hair fell loose about her shoulders, while her face was free from all paints, and she looked so natural . . . graceful . . .  

It stole his full attention to watch her smile, as if pleased to see him, and – as she glanced down – she brought her hands to her chest and let out a low gasp, before bending down to scoop up the bouquet and bringing it to her face to breathe deep the scent. Odin smiled in turn, as he watched how she blushed and gently ran her fingers over the petals. It was clear there was great love for such a small token, enough that he wished he brought more than just the handful provided, and he swore to bring all the more in future. Frigga whispered:

“They are beautiful, Odin.”

Frigga noticed the card and took it into hand. He looked away with a blush, as he noticed how her eyes widened with unshed tears and she clutched the card to her bosom, and he kicked awkwardly at the ground, ever thankful he came alone lest anyone see him so overcome with emotion at simply seeing the woman he loved so content. The sun started to rise just behind them, casting him shadow but providing Frigga with a beautiful glow, and – under the bright light – it was as if her skin were cast as golden as her locks. Odin said in a nervous whisper:

“I came to ask for your courtship.”

“I see,” said Frigga. “It is a most romantic card. I know there are many that would not expect such words of poetry from a king, but I am proud to say I have seen the gentleness in your soul that many others would deny. I am honoured you would trust me.”

“I know you would never mock me, my lady.”

“I could never mock a man I admire.”

Frigga lowered her head with flushed cheeks. He saw how she cradled the bouquet ever closer, while pressing and pursing her lips with clear nervousness, and – with a soft laugh – he realised that his fears were not simply his alone to bear, but that she also felt a love so strong that she constantly worried how to express those emotions. Odin stepped closer, as his heart raced and his lips ran dry, and he reached out to push a lock of hair behind her ear, as he strove to feign courage. Frigga leaned into the touch with a flutter of eyelashes.

“I can not envision you mocking any man,” confessed Odin.

A comfortable silence descended on them, as Frigga stepped to the side and revealed a beautiful hall behind her with dozens of doors on either side, and – high on the spiralling staircase that led to a balcony on the second level – a pair of young girls that giggled and jabbed at one another. Frigga rolled her eyes and looked to them with a hand on her hip, before both ran with teasing words of ‘we’re telling Mama’. Frigga said with a laugh:

“Would you like to come inside?”

“I would dare not,” confessed Odin. “I do not wish to disrespect your father by proceeding with this courtship without his consent, but I also do not wish for others to cast aspersions on your character by being alone together without a chaperone. That being said, I do not think I could turn away from you . . . even if the world stood against us, I would still love you.”

“Do you truly wish to call it ‘love’ at such an early stage?” Frigga teased. “Still, I will confess that I believe I shall easily fall in love with you. Thank you, Odin. I appreciate that you would show me such respect, even if I sometimes wish to be . . . disrespected.”

“I do not know what you mean, my lady,” whispered Odin.

“Please, let us be alone for a short while?”

Frigga flushed a deep shade of crimson. It was enough for Odin to mimic her obvious embarrassment, as he stood with heart pounding painfully loud in his ears, and – as he opened and closed his mouth without word – a stab of arousal ran through his frame. He swallowed hard. A part of longed to accept her offer of some stolen embrace, but he knew that they would both regret it in the long term to give in before a matrimonial union.

He still searched for words when she reached for his hand. It was a warm touch. A spark of electricity ran through his body, along with a deep sense of desire, and yet – just as he nearly gave into her subtle advances – he caught sight of her surprise . . . _wide eyes, parted lips, paling skin_. . . he jerked his hand back. The illusion was still intact, but it did little to hide the texture and coldness of his Jotun flesh, and now she knew . . . _she knew_. . . tears filled his eyes as he stumbled back and shook his head over and over.

“Please, tell no one,” pleaded Odin.

Odin feared the worst. He feared he lost her heart. It took all his strength to hold back the waves of emotion that threatened to overwhelm all his senses, even as he stumbled backwards and tripped over his feet in the process, and – gasping for breath – he raised his hands and made a gesture for her to stay back. He ran. Odin headed toward the palaces with a fast pace, desperate to get as far away as possible, even as he heard her cry out:

“Odin, please wait!”

* * *

“You have been avoiding me.”

Frigga stood centre of the doorway. Odin rapidly blinked and looked around, as he sought to deal with his surprise at both seeing one that ought to hate him and seeing one confident enough to confront him, but – with a loud laugh – Baldur simply slapped his back and walked away with a shake of his head. It left Odin and Frigga alone in the small audience chamber, where the _chaise longue_ was still warm from where the nobles sat and gossiped.

Odin stepped back and gestured to one of the sofas, where Frigga – with a low hiss of breath – swept inside with her skirts billowing out behind her, and she dropped onto the soft cushions with folded arms and a stern expression. He kept his head low, unable to look her in the eyes. Frigga patted the cushion at her side. Odin dragged his feet towards her, surprised that she would still wish to be in close proximity, and sat gently until the cushions dipped and she fell a little closer toward him, where she braced herself on his arm. Odin murmured:

“I did not think you would want to see me.”

Frigga continued to hold onto his arm, as she slid close enough that legs touched and feet brushed together, and he noticed – with a hard swallow – that she half-smiled with her head resting against his shoulder, as her fingers trailed down his arm towards his wrist. There was no gesture of surprise or horror, but merely one of mild curiosity, until she entwined their fingers and brought his hand onto her lap. He struggled to keep calm, as the small intimacy reminded him of all he desired and the depths of her forgiving heart.

Odin realised his hand trembled in her hold. Frigga said nothing except to stroke at his cool skin with a gentle and soft touch, as her thumb traced the patterns made invisible on his skin, and Odin squeezed back on her hand with a shuddered sigh, as she hummed a low tune and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. The touch of her lips provided a lingering sensation, as he stared wide-eyed at her even as she lowered her head and said in a cool voice:

“Do you presume to know my mind?”

“I am half-Jotun,” said Odin.

“Are we listing qualities that society deems to be faults?” Frigga smiled and shook her head. “I am a woman, which means I can never aspire to be more than a ‘wife’. I have Vanir blood, which means I am not ‘pure’ enough to marry a noble. Do you think I mind that you have Jotun blood? I would think you more ashamed by the _seiðr_ that hides your flesh.”

“I know you would not judge me for such magic.” Odin smiled in turn. “It is said that _seiðr_ is an _ergi_ talent when pursued by men, even if such strong magic is passed down the royal line, but I heard of your talents and I saw your skill . . . you are no hypocrite.”

“No, so if I would not judge you for the assumed ‘worst’, why would I judge you for the seeming ‘better’? I have been wooed by men scarred and bruised from battle, just as I have been propositioned by men soft and dainty as any woman, and I have had many ask my father for my hand that are all manners between. I declined all advances. I cared not for their strength or their appearances, but for their _hearts_ and their _minds_.”

Frigga used a free hand to take a flower from her hair. It was in full bloom with a rich scent, enough that he recognised it at once from the bouquet left on her doorstep, and she gently brought it to the chest-plate of his armour and dipped the stem inside, so that the flower adorned his attire in the style of a love token. Odin brought up a hand to gently touch at the petals, before smiling and turned his head to judge her reaction, only for her to reach for his face and stroke at his cheek. He nuzzled into the warm touch with a murmur of contentment.

“Only you have ever been honest with me,” said Frigga.

The words were tinged with a hint of sadness. Odin squeezed again at her hand, as he raised another to touch that which still held his cheek, and – with a strong stab of shame – he leaned his forehead against hers, letting them share breath and warmth. He knew that he should have been honest with her from the start, but a part of him still feared this could be the end . . . there was on Frigga . . . without Frigga there was no one else he could love. Frigga chastised:

“Never make assumptions about me again.”

“You would give me a second chance?”

“Odin, you have never lied to me,” said Frigga. “You have never pretended to be more or less than yourself. In fact, you have been willing to expose parts of yourself that have left you vulnerable . . . you _trusted_ me. You treated me not as a weak woman to be won, but as an individual who you paid more respect than any other being alive. I feel honoured. I cannot express how much it means to me that you would gift me such basic decency . . .

“You have treated me just like any man, as if I were a friend or an equal, but equally you have treated me _better_ than any other person . . . I dare say even ‘special’, but not in the manner of most men. You never assumed I was weak or fragile. Instead, you treated me as if I were somehow _above_ you . . . with reverence . . . no one has ever treated me so well.”

“I find that hard to believe,” teased Odin.

“It is true,” said Frigga. “I also think that maybe _you_ have never been treated so well. You have spent a life being told how to act and what to say and where to go, all while listening to a king that has began a campaign of anti-Jotun rhetoric, and sometimes I feel I cannot do enough to prove to you that you are worthy of all the riches this world can provide.”

“I do not want riches. I only ever wanted _you_.”

“You may still have me, Odin. I would never abandon you.”

Odin screwed shut his eyes and pulled back. He opened them to see the faint indentations on her forehead from where the ridges of his skin pressed against soft flesh, and he saw the sincerity in her eyes that was at odds with the nature hidden beneath his _seiðr_. There followed the soft sound of music from some distant room, where the nobles mingled after a long session debating laws and decisions, and he wondered what they would think in turn.

“Is that what you fear?” Frigga asked: “Abandonment?”

A cold sweat overcame his skin, as adrenaline coursed through his veins, and – for the first time in his life – he wondered if he could find courage to speak aloud the words that scarred his heart for so many millennia . . . his father swore him to secrecy, his brother never understood . . . Odin brought his hand down to theirs still entwined, as he tried to centre himself with the touch of warm flesh on cold skin. Frigga pressed another kiss to his cheek, but this time close to the corner of his mouth. Frigga whispered:

“You can talk to me in confidence.”

“I still do not know why my mother left me,” confessed Odin. “If I were to tell anyone, I would live in fear of it being used against me for political gain. If I were to tell my friends, they would look at me with pity and see me as less of a perfect ruler. If I were to tell my father, he would accuse me of weakness and sympathising with the traitors.”

“Then tell me, for I will simply _listen_.”

“I have lain awake some nights wondering what I have done wrong. Is it not true that a mother’s love is instinctual and absolute? Mother spent so many years with me, but it was not enough to forge a bond . . . _I_ was not enough . . . how was it that she could not love me even after so long spent in my presence? How could she overcome instinctual emotion?

“The fact she took my sister only makes matters worse. Is it that my sister was preferred? Is it that I was superfluous? I sometimes compared myself to my sister, but all I can consider is how she looked more Asgardian in nature. My father did all that he could to change my nature, which included casting this spell upon me, and he told me that no one would ever love me should they see my true face. He is right . . . even my mother could not love me.”

Frigga gently extricated herself from his touch. A momentary spark of panic ripped through him, only to be replaced by a terrifying chasm in his chest, as sheer despair and devastation filled him to the brim, and – just as he was ready to give up on life itself – she slid to her knees in front of him, as if she were no more than a servant or slave. Frigga took both his hands and pressed a kiss to each in turn, before nuzzling against them and singing out a low tune that belonged to the Jotun people, and soon she pulled back to look with warm eyes.

“Show me,” whispered Frigga.

It took all the strength he could muster to consider the request. Odin wanted to run, as he tightened his hands into fist and saw black spots appear before his vision, but somehow – as he drew in deep hisses of breath – he found strength to focus on his _seiðr_. The illusion soon fell away, as it revealed deep blue skin and ridged patterns over his flesh, and he knew his red eyes would appear monstrous to an Asgardian so pure and perfect as Frigga.

Frigga showed no shame. There were tears in her eyes, but her smile betrayed her love for him and her happiness that he would trust her so much, and – with gentle laughter – she grabbed at his face and threw her lips against him. It was a gentle kiss . . . _his first_. . . the touch was so soft and smooth, so unlike his dry and chapped lips, and they coaxed him into reciprocation until he tasted a hint of tongue. He pulled back with panicked mumbles and muttered apologies, only to find her lathering kisses all over his face, as she swore to him:

“If it is possible, I believe I love you all the more.”

Frigga kissed him again in true earnest.

* * *

Frigga was beautiful.

The hall was golden and grand. On either side of the red carpet, thousands of men and women gathered to see their future king wed the woman he so loved, and – with full ornamental armour clad over him form – he could barely believe that he found a soul-mate so perfect as to accept him despite the truth behind the illusion. The sacred fire raged behind them, while Bor Burison stood before it with the white cloth ready to bind them.

It was impossible to put into words Frigga’s beauty. The white and golden gown that graced her frame was regal in nature, handed down from queen to queen, and – from vague memories of old portraits – Odin recognised it as one his mother wore on her wedding day, complete with the same intricate stitches and designs. Frigga let loose her golden locks, as they cascaded down her shoulders and back, and tears gathered in blue eyes, as she watched Odin so excited to finally be officially united for life. They were a couple, at last.

“Odin, my love,” whispered Frigga. “I – Frigga Fjörgynsdóttir – pledge to you my undying fidelity, my absolute devotion, and my unending love. You have given me the world. I would give you my life. I pray that today will be the first of a long lifetime. I love you.”

Odin took the white cloth from Bor; it was gently wrapped around their clasped hands, before Bor tied a tight knot to keep the cloth in place, and – together – they walked bound around the flame and stopped again in front of Bor to share their first kiss as a married couple. It was quick and chaste, both too embarrassed at sharing something so intimate before their people, and yet it was filled with such love and lust that Odin knew their future would be a bright and passionate one. He leaned close to her and pressed lips to her jewelled ear.

“We are now husband and wife,” said Odin.

Frigga burst into joyful tears. Against all etiquette, Frigga threw her arms around Odin and pulled him close, until – unable to resist – he held her in turn and embraced until the point he feared they may cause each other harm. . . unable to let go, so happy to hold . . . cheers erupted around them and Bor congratulated them. The world stopped around them, as if no one else existed apart from one another, and Odin choked out through tears:

“I love you, Frigga.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Hela is beautiful.”

Odin carefully touched the small bundle. The fabric was soft to the touch, unlike anything he experienced, and the small face that peeked out was so fragile, enough that his hand trembled in the prospect of holding Hela for the first time. He swallowed hard, as tears built behind his eyes, and he stroked at the black hair as green eyes opened wide, enough that he let out choked laughter as he leaned ever closer to the small and vulnerable infant.

He let out a quick succession of breaths, as Eir strove to place Hela into his arms, and – as his eyes widened and mouth parted – Frigga giggled from the bed and placed a fatigued hand on his back, which comforted him enough for him to relax. Eir finally removed her hands from the newborn, so that he was left to hold Hela without any support . . . he carefully sat at the edge of the bed, so that the fear of falling was reduced, while he cradled his firstborn against his chest and watched as she silently looked up at him with huge eyes.

 _He was holding Hela_.

Odin cast his eyes to Frigga. The exhaustion was clear, as her cheeks were pale and sunken, and the blood-loss took its toll along with the excruciating pain, while every so often she would wince from contractions that he was so sure would stop after birth. There were women all around her, who would pull her sweat-soaked hair from her eyes or offer her ice to chew to ease her dehydrated state, and Odin saw none of them . . . he saw only the most beautiful woman in the world clad in a nightdress that would need be replaced . . .

“Thank you,” whispered Odin. “Thank you, my love.”

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, as she dropped a hand onto his thigh. It was a loose and casual touch, simply to provide some reassurance that she was present, but he knew she needed sleep above all else and newborns were hardly conducive to rest. He smiled and noticed Hela quietly watching him, so unlike every newborn, and bounced her lightly with strange sounds that embarrassed him to hear escape from his lips. Frigga lay beside him, as her head lolled on the pillow and her half-lidded eyes watched with interest.

He slid down onto the bed, even as her attendants gasped and begged him to move, but – ignoring basic decency and calls for her need for rest – he lay beside her with Hela rested on his chest, where the small babe yawned and listened to his heartbeat. The two of them said nothing, even as Eir escorted the complaining servants out of the recovery suite. Odin smiled and stroked at Hela’s hair, while his free hand gripped at Frigga’s and fingers entwined.

“I thought you may want a son,” whispered Frigga.

Odin squeezed her hand again, as a tear rolled down his cheek onto the pillow. He knew time was limited . . . Frigga would spend several days locked in the recovery suite, before being moved to their private chambers for six weeks of confinement . . . Hela watched Frigga with big eyes, which would close whenever Frigga would close hers in turn. Odin laughed and lifted his head to press a kiss to her black hair, which was still scented with the ‘baby smell’ that the healers talked about at great length, and he could only choke out:

“I wanted only for a healthy and happy child.”

“An Asgardian child?”

“That was a concern of mine,” confessed Odin. “Our daughter looks so much like her mother, with beautiful white skin and sharp features, but her hair . . . it is the hair of Bestla. A part of me is thrilled to see my mother live on through our daughter, but another part of me feels that stab of abandonment each time I look upon her, and I know. . . I _know_ that I –!”

“Talk to me freely, Husband,” pleaded Frigga.

“I know that I will never be able to turn my back on our daughter. I have only just laid eyes on her and yet my love is so unconditional, and – with her by my side – we shall conquer all Nine Realms and lay an end to our current wars. How can anyone abandon one so innocent and so perfect? How can one tear apart such strong bonds? It is impossible.”

“I understand the depths of you love. I cursed her existence when I was wrought with such agonising pain, but then I heard her cries . . . something inside me melted. . . I wept with love and joy and relief, knowing such pain was worth the gift it brought. I love her, too.”

“May I admit something that may offend you?”

Frigga raised an eyebrow, even as her hand loosened its grip on him, and her other fell limp at her side, while she breathed low and slow as sleep threatened to overtake what little energy remained in her weakened frame. Odin watched as her eyes closed, half-certain she would never remember what emerged from any conversation, and yet – as tears streamed from his eyes – he laughed as he pulled Hela to his lips, pressing kiss after kiss to her hair as if he might not ever see her again. Frigga chuckled and murmured:

“You may always be honest with me.”

The healers ran to and fro in the room outside. He saw a few faces dip back inside, as they fetched bloodied sheets and sweat-soaked clothes, and they would remind him in firm voices about the need for sleep and internal checks that no man should be present. Odin dismissed them with a wave of a hand while he stared in awe at Hela, whose every press of her lips or blink of her eyes would steal his full attention. Odin said through his tears:

“I think I may love her even more than you.”

Frigga laughed and half-rolled onto her side, as her hand lingered in the air toward Hela, and he gently lay Hela between them so that she could rest her hand on Hela’s abdomen, while she pressed kisses to her head in turn with exhausted smiles. Odin struggled to see through his tears, even as they ran into his hairline and soaked at his locks, but – as he rolled in turn – he watched as mother and daughter shared a tender moment. He wished to immortalise the image. He was so lost in his adoration that he nearly missed her whispered words:

“That is the way it should be, Husband.”

* * *

_‘Have I made you proud, Father?’_

_The air was alive with a crackling fire. The heat was unbearable, burning his skin and imprinting brown marks on his flesh, and – as sweat dripped down his flesh – he panted for breath and stepped closer toward Hela on the dais, a stranger in these strange lands. Odin stood with arms wide and hands trembling high, as he lifted his head and let the winds blast by him like a true inferno. He fought to see. He strained to listen._

_Hela stood with green-and-black clothes billowing around her, as the crown on her head spread out like tendrils into the red air alive with smoke, and each step towards her revealed more and more of the dangerous smirk that played across her lips. A tear pricked at the corner of his eye, as he thought back to the infant in his arms . . . the crying babe, the laughing toddler, the curious child . . . Hela still bore his confident demeanour, still wore Frigga’s facial expressions . . . still a part of them. Odin choked out:_

_‘Give up this poisonous quest, Daughter.’_

_A loud laugh escaped her lips. It was cold and dark, reminiscent of Bor during battle, but there was a bloodlust there as she sought to make him proud . . . finish what he started . . . blood dripped from her pointed nails, as red stained her sleeves, and he kept his gaze focussed forward and away from the bodies of their enemies. The stench of iron was heavy in the humid air, while a squeak of leather could be heard as Hela stalked towards him with a flick of her hands, and – as blades glittered in the red light – she laughed all the more._

_‘Make me,’ she spat._

* * *

Odin gazed up at the domed ceilings. The red paint made a stark contrast with two figures side-by-side in battle, as woman and man made grand equals, but – as he strove to memorise every line on the woman clad in shades of black-and-green – a layer of plaster smothered the old layers of paint and finally rendered the image invisible. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, while books burned in controlled fires about the halls, and flashbacks of his youth brought him back to the words of his father . . . ‘ _your mother is a traitor’_ . . .

Footsteps echoed.

Frigga stood at his side and wrapped her hands around his arm, where she squeezed and buried her face into the side of his back to half-hide the tears that fell down her cheeks and stained her dress, and he turned in turn and embraced Frigga. The warmth of her flesh provided a comfort to his cool skin. Each time they touched, it was like the first time all over again . . . every skip of breath, every quickened heartbeat . . . it was easy to forget the world existed around them, as he lost himself in her floral perfume and silky locks of hair.

He said nothing, even as she pulled back. Odin nuzzled into her palm, while she ran her hands over his cheeks and jaw, and he blinked back tears as he listened to history being rewritten around them, as the last few images of their daughter were erased. The memories played in his mind each time he closed his eyes, while he reminded himself that he could not afford to ever repeat past mistakes. Asgard needed to become a place for peace.

“There was nothing you could have done,” said Frigga.

Odin walked slowly out of the hall; Frigga took the offer of his arm and held tight, while she moved in step with him until they finally reached the staircase outside, and – with one look over his shoulder – Odin saw his throne past the pillars and fires. It stood as a reminder of what was lost and what was gained. The main doors were closed behind them, leaving them with a blast of fresh air and the sounds of guards training in the yards beyond.

“I gave her that Jotun nature,” spat Odin.

“You also gave her love and attention.” Frigga kissed his cheek. “There is no nature that cannot be overcome with nurture, as the two co-exist and entwine to create the people that we are, and if Hela chose the wrong path . . . our daughter did so _knowing_ it to be wrong, despite all the good we instilled in her. I would not say that her nature won out, but that –”

“I overcame my nature. I ceased this desperate need to war and conquer, instead seeking to bring peace to the Nine Realms and making amends for the empire of my forefathers, and yet I held more Jotun blood than Hela . . . is the Jotun blood such a corrupting force?”

“Odin, you must listen to me.”

“Did I corrupt her? Did I make her into this monster?”

A light slap struck his cheek. It was not loud enough to ring out, but hard enough to snap him to full awareness and bring the guards around them to full attention, and – unsure how to react – the guards searched their faces for an indication of intent. Odin raised a hand to signal them away, as he rapidly blinked and looked to Frigga in surprise. There was no mark on his cheek. There was no pain from the blow. He saw tears stream from her eyes, as she swore:

“You are not to blame.”

Odin doubled over, as he half-laughed and half-choked. He screwed shut his eyes, with her words a worse blow than any punch or slash, and he longed for battle as – with battle – he knew every response to every blow, even as the adrenaline coursed through his frame. The pain was physical in his chest. He held tight to Frigga at his side, while bringing the hand that struck him to his lips, and he pressed kisses over and over to the warm skin, even as he fought back the urge to weep and scream and faint. Odin choked out in a gasp:

“My father always warned me about the Jotun, yet –”

“Your father was a lover spurned,” chastised Frigga. “Bestla left these lands, that much is true, but we know not whether she intended to return or what her motives were for her departure, but we do know one thing . . . Bor Burison blamed a race for the actions of one woman.  I think he sought to impose reason on chaos, laying blame to avoid self-blame.”

“I know that logically there is nothing wrong with the entire race. I have met Laufey and he has both charm and wit in abundance, while I have seen Fárbauti from afar and witnessed the kindness in her soul, but if it is not the Jotun blood -? What if it is _me_? What if she left –?”

“A child can do no evil,” swore Frigga. “They have no concept of ‘evil’ until later in life, while we both know how strong the love of a parent is to their child, and – as such – what makes you think you have some ‘evil’ in you that could force her to leave? If this is something within you, separate of the Jotun blood, why could it not have come from Bor or some other? How can you then be to blame for passing along what you cannot control?”

“Perhaps I should not have procreated? I should have allowed Baldur to ascend the throne, perhaps picked his children to be my heirs, and we could have adopted some child in need of a home, one that I could love unconditionally knowing that it did not inherit this curse from me, not hating myself for having harmed them . . . Hela was my responsibility!”

“No, she was _our_ responsibility. Do you blame my ‘good’ genes for not being good enough? Do you blame my parenting for not being good enough? Why do you hold yourself to a higher standard than which you hold me? You are not so vain, Odin Borson.”

“What can I do to make things right? How can I fix matters?”

“You are not guilty for the crime of another.”

Frigga took his hands and guided him down the stone steps. He knew she would lead him through the palace grounds and take him back to their chambers, where the next few days would be spent in grief and solace, and the small intimacies would provide a comfort in allowing them to not be lost in loneliness and self-blame. A cool breeze caught at his hair, while he walked aimlessly with head cast low and eyes hurting through the tears, and – as vision blurred – he struggled to maintain his composure. Frigga held ever tighter to him.

“Let us forget the past,” said Frigga. “Let us make a bright future.”

“How can I forget the child that I still so love?”

“Do not forget Hela, but do not continue to blame yourself either.”

They stopped before the chamber doors, where he shook his head and opened his mouth, but – as he looked around at the hallways that were no longer outside courtyards or halls – he realised that time had been lost and the world was lost around him. He raised a hand to his cheeks. Tears were wet at his fingertips. He wept. He wept even as Frigga guided him inside and closed the doors behind then, and finally they were behind closed doors . . . no guards to see, no nobles to judge . . . Odin collapsed to his knees and mourned for the daughter lost.

* * *

Thor let loose a yawn.

It brought a smile to Odin, as he stood behind Frigga. Frigga sat curled up on her rocking-chair, while she cradled Thor to her breast and sang a low song to him, and – with a broken laugh – he recognised the tune as one from his childhood. There were too many similarities between Thor and Hela . . . both such quiet children, both so observant . . . only the blue eyes and blond locks revealed him to be different than the lost sibling, even as tiny hand clasped at the hem of Frigga’s dress and held with surprising strength for a newborn.

“I have a son,” whispered Odin.

He came around to take Thor into his arms. The boy was soft and fragile, but also chubby and large despite eating only what came from the womb, and the healers kept their distance this time, as Odin waited for Frigga to be cleaned to perfection before seeing entrance. A white robe practically hung from Thor, with the excess fabric falling over Odin’s arm, and the _seiðr_ was as strong in Thor as it was for Hela. He would grow to be a fine king.

The love was strong and intense, enough that he was stronger in Thor’s presence, and yet it was different this time . . . more the searing heat of metal in the blacksmith’s forge than the fire fires that consumed wild forests . . . Odin bounced Thor and cocked his head to the side, as he spotted a strong resemblance to his Asgardian illusion. He heaved a sigh of relief, that Thor would be Asgardian in nature. There would never be the teasing on the playground. There would never be the fear of an illusion coming undone. Frigga whispered:

“Are you proud?”

Odin knelt before her and nodded with a smile. The tears would not come, even as the emotion welled in his throat, but she sensed his pleasure and touched his cheek. There was a tremble to her fatigued hand, but she remained strong and contented. Thor stirred with a loud yawn that brought laughter from them both, and – as they locked eyes – there was a stirring of utmost love that time could never squash, which brought back memories of when they first met and that same undying devotion that never tarnished over time. Odin swore:

“I will do right this time.”

* * *

It was unbearable.

The pain radiated through his eye-socket, as if breaching the skull itself, and the red-hot agony – searing every nerve and penetrated every blood-vessel – nearly brought him to his knees, as he stumbled through the snow and the mud. Every step was pure torture, as his vision distorted and failed to match with his intentions. Steps were misplaced. Touches were misguided. Odin lost depth perception, gaining only a sharp hindrance . . .

A temple stood tall on a nearby hill. He scooped up a handful of snow as he struggled towards its open doors, before slamming the snow into his wound with an agonised scream, and yet the cold helped to clean the gaping hole, even as it throbbed in time with his heart. It was difficult to focus, as blood loss left him fatigued and weakened, but soon his men would find him and he would be whisked to the infirmary tents to be tended with healing stones, even as he longed only to return home. The temple came into view before him.

It was a relic of an older civilisation, carved from stone and ice, but his surroundings blurred around him and would soon fall out of his memory, until the memory itself became merely a dream to be had on stressful nights. The armoured boots clattered on the tiled floor, sending out echoes that disturbing ice from the ceilings above, and small clouds of snow thus rained down on him with a comfort that could only come from the harsher climes.

A loud cry echoed forth.

Odin cast his eye over to the altar. There was a small bundle wrapped in an old cloth, which writhed and moved with great energy, and – as he stumbled closer and knelt down – he spotted a child . . . _a Jotun child_. A tuft of black hair betrayed the babe as one with mixed blood, even with eyes red and filled with tears, and the ears . . . the facial shape . . . there was something Asgardian there, something beyond what the monsters in this realm could produce.

“You must be Loki,” whispered Odin.

He gently slid his hands beneath the bundle, lifting the child high against his chest. It was definitely a child not long born, perhaps a few days old at most, and – remembering what Býleistr confessed as their prisoner of war – there was no mistaking what was his nephew. He smiled to see how Loki laughed. The boy was clearly lonely and desired to be held, while he smelled fresh and felt clean, and Odin simply crawled over to the altar with panted breath and collapsed back upon it, as he rolled his head backward to the ceiling above.

“I shall never forgive this Jotun nature,” said Odin. “Fárbauti died in childbirth. Laufey was losing a running battle. I would expect to them to _cling_ to the last remembrance of their queen and protect a child so fragile in nature, but instead you are here . . . alone . . . abandoned.”

Loki gurgled and giggled.

“I was abandoned, too, Loki. My mother came into these lands long ago, although I will remember her face clearly until the day I die, and sometimes – on rather dark nights – I think about all the things I would have said to her had we met again . . . there are times I would angrily chastise her, other times I would run into her arms with forgiveness . . .”

Loki sniffed before he sneezed. It was a sound so loud that it scared the babe, who started to cry loud and strong with a healthy set of lungs, and Odin bounced him and pulled faces to him, as he wondered whether Bestla once held him like this . . . sang to him like this . . . Loki was in his arms for less than ten minutes, but already he knew he could adore this child. A tear threatened to roll from his eye, but the pain in the other was so excruciating that it cut into his joy and brought back the harsh reality of the world around them. Odin whispered:

“You do not deserve to live with those doubts.”

He raised his legs and gently rested Loki on them, even as a grinding and burning pain shot through his hip and high into his chest, and – grunting from the pain – he brought his finger to his mouth and bit into the flesh. A rush of _seiðr_ flooded his veins. He lowered the wound to Loki’s mouth, while he muttered a series of spells under his breath . . . Loki suckled . . . the skin slowly turned from blue to white, with eyes changing from red to green.

“You are my nephew,” said Odin.

Loki sneezed.

“Laufey already has two heirs in Helblindi and Býleistr.”

Odin pursed his lips with a sigh. He touched at now warm flesh, which would not suffer the Asgardian climes as his Jotun flesh would suffer, and – so long as Loki avoided extreme cold – there was nothing that would break the spell and reveal his true form. It would be easy to pass him as his son . . . hair black as Hela, whose hair was black as Frigga before . . . sharp features unusual to both parents, but softened by a smile that could have rivalled even Frigga, as Loki giggled and murmured and yawned. Odin knew what he had to do . . .

He took Loki.

* * *

Frigga stood tall.

The flare to her nostrils spoke of great frustration, which was made all the more intimidating by folded arms and head held high, and – as her cheeks flushed a dark red – Heimdall stood centre of the Bifrost will an all-knowing smirk across his lips. A warm breeze blew through the dome, bringing a soft sigh from Loki, and Odin smiled down at the babe in his arms, as he saw how Loki smacked his lips and turned his head towards the breeze.

A loud gallop could be heard further down the bridge, as the last of his men returned to their homes and infirmaries, and the Bifrost was filled with the scent of blood and death and sweat, while stained bandages and leftover supplies littered the ground. Odin was the last to return. It brought a stab of pain to his healing socket, even as he held Loki ever closer to his chest, but Frigga continued to glare at him with a cold and stern gaze. The silence between them was broken only by a loud gurgle from Loki, who gripped tight to Odin’s beard.

“Hello, Husband,” said Frigga.

Heimdall swept towards Odin and bowed deep. He rose again and offered his hands towards Loki, where he waited for permission to take the child into his arms, and – with great reluctance – Odin carefully slid Loki towards him, where he experienced a stab of guilt and a sense of loss that brought him back to the time of Hela. It took all his strength not to grab again for Loki, even as he watched Heimdall walk to the sides . . . still in eyesight . . . still within reach, but somehow miles apart for their short absence. Odin looked to Frigga.

“Frigga, my wife,” chirped Odin. “It is good to see –”

A hand was raised high. Frigga let out a low hiss of breath, as she swept forward with her skirts billowing out behind her, and – with a hard swallow – Odin swallowed hard and struggled to keep his head high, as he struggled between striving to maintain an image of control and grovelling in response to a wrong he knew was committed. He said nothing, even as she stopped just a few inches from him. Frigga said in a surprisingly low voice:

“I was not aware I was pregnant.”

Odin furrowed his brow and glanced to her stomach. The fabric was flat and firm, highlighting only a small swell that was yet to deplete from the previous pregnancy, but there was no sign of anything further or anything different. Frigga pinched the bridge of her nose, as she closed her eyes and shook her head. A hand rose once more. This time she pointed towards Loki who appeared mesmerised by how the light reflected from Heimdall’s armour.

“Our new son,” said Frigga.

Odin flushed a deep shade of red. He took Frigga’s hands and kissed each and every digit, while he squeezed as hard as he dared and smiled in a silent plea for approval, as he cast his eye back to Loki whose tiny hand smacked at the light on the chest plate. Each time Heimdall moved, the light would move in turn. It brought laughter from them both, although Frigga cut hers short with a half-smile and half-frown, before gently extricating her hands with a low hiss of breath. Odin pressed a kiss to her cheek, as his heart raced in his chest.

“He needed a home,” whispered Odin.

“Laufey may have been a distant father,” confessed Frigga. “Laufey may have even been wanting as a husband, but he has always had a deep and undying loyalty to his blood. I cannot imagine him abandoning a child, even one that would be considered a ‘runt’ to the Jotun race, and he will likely considered Loki murdered before he considers him kidnapped.”

“He is not kidnapped,” said Odin. “He is home.”

“Heimdall says that he was left in the temple. Why would one leave a child in such a place if abandoned or unwanted? We have always avoided temples in wartime. They are sacred places and exempt from ransack. Do you not think he was placed there for his protection?”

“What will become of him on Jotunheim? Loki is my only connection to my mother; hair black as night, eyes green as emeralds, and a smile that I remember from my bedtime stories and morning meals. How could such monsters raise a babe so innocent? He would be taught to war and harm, but here we can combat his nature and make him so much better. . .”

“You see Hela in Loki,” said Frigga.

Odin paled and backed away. He stepped towards the edge of the Bifrost, where the entirety of space was laid out before them, and the stars glistened and glittered with a burning life that spoke of an endless infinity of potential. Frigga came to stand beside him, with her hand pressed to his wounded should with a very minimal pressure. The touch comforted him, enough that he reached up to take her hand with a gentle hold, but it also reminded him of all that was lost and all that they stood to gain. Odin drew in a staggered breath and begged:

“Do not speak her name.”

“I know you love this child,” said Frigga. “What will you do as he grows older? You cannot hide his Jotun nature forever. You will see him grow to look more and more like Hela, while always hiding him from the Jotuns lest word make it back to Laufey, and how shall that hinder any potential peace treaties in turn? Laufey shall wage war if he knows the truth.

“I dare not think how I would react should Thor be taken from us, so I can only imagine the horrors that Laufey must endure, but to take Loki back now would amount to a confession that you have taken him without consent of Laufey. It would be a political disaster.”

“Then let us keep him,” begged Odin. “Thor needs a sibling.”

“You cannot just keep a child, Husband.”

Odin crossed the dome toward Heimdall. He took Loki from arms already outstretched, while he laughed to see a child so perfect . . . so much potential . . . Hela appeared to live inside Loki, such a strong resemblance and so much in common, and yet he knew – _he knew_ – that he could not fail this child. Loki was so aware and so bright, constantly making noises as if striving to communicate with the adults, while Odin bounced him with tears already threatening to fall down his cheeks . . . _something so beautiful borne from war_. . .

“I shall name him Loki Odinson.”

A loud sigh echoed from Frigga, while Heimdall groaned. Odin held Loki high with a tear already forming in his eye, as he sought to memorise every sound and every gesture, and he only stopped when Frigga came to stand beside him with a resigned smile, as she took Loki into her arms and held him close with an ambivalent expression. The two looked perfect together, as Loki started to murmur in earnest with small squeals. Odin whispered:

“My son. My boy. . .”


	4. Chapter 4

_A loud scream_.

Odin rose slowly from the marital bed. He rubbed awkwardly at his eyes, as he strove to dislodge sleep from the corners, while Frigga murmured lazily beside him and asked a question that was half-lost on lips still swollen, and he cricked his neck and raised a wrinkled hand in acknowledgement of her words. A cool breeze drifted through the open balcony, catching at the sheets about her chest, which rose and fell with every breath.

A second scream followed from outside, but this time it was less panicked in nature. It was low like a roar, with more fury than fear, and followed by a series of crashes and clatters, while high-pitched laughter moved in all directions about the garden. Odin lowered his head and rubbed at his temples; Frigga crawled over the sheets to reach his side, where she knelt high on her knees and ran her hands over his back, and he sighed as she left a trail of kisses over his arms and neck, while rubbing at his shoulders with deep presses.

He knew that she would return to sleep when he left, but that he would be rewarded with many more kisses when he returned. Odin furrowed his brow . . . _soft lips on his fluttering stomach muscles, long fingers spreading wide his muscled thighs, a warm breath on parts never seen any other eyes_. . . it was a tempting reward, but not quite tempting enough when he heard a loud curse follow by simultaneous shouts. Frigga whispered in a low voice:

“Will you tend to your children, Husband?”

Odin noted how her hands momentarily paused. He chuckled under his breath, as he was reminded of times when the boys were just infants, and how each awoken slumber would be traded off so all cries were tended to with equal attention. Odin turned and took Frigga’s hands with a gentle touch, as he ran callused fingers over soft skin, before he plastered kisses upon kisses over her palms with reluctance to part from her presence. Odin asked:

“If I were to offer you instead a –”

“Nothing you could offer me would be enough,” teased Frigga.

It was certainly a true statement. He slid his hands away with a sigh, as he straightened his nightshirt and dragged his feet over toward the balcony, and – with a groan – ran a hand over bearded face and rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles. Odin stopped a few feet short of the balcony itself, as he composed himself with a deep inhale of breath. A small chuckle echoed out behind him, followed by a soft sound of a body dropping onto sheets, and it took all his strength not to mutter a complaint even as a smile graced his lips.

 _Another scream_. The smile soon faded from his features. He stepped out onto the tiled balcony and rested his hands on the banister, while he cast his eyes over the gardens below where an illusion of Loki would occasionally glimmer into view, and yet – no sooner had it appeared – Thor would dive into its magic and it would vanish from sight. Loki may have been the younger teenager, but he knew too well how Thor would react at any time.

Odin half-smiled to see Loki’s mastery of _seiðr_ and ingenious techniques, reminded of his youth and battles won by well-timed illusions to distract the enemy, but the smile was tempered by the realisation a part of Odin lived inside Loki . . . a Jotun nature that was ever present and to which he was ever aware. Thor continued to chase Loki below, until he finally managed to grab the real form and threw Loki hard against a tree. A loud thud echoed out. It did little to stop Loki’s laughter, even as Thor pinned him tight against the bark.

“You _tricked_ me,” spat Thor.

“Oh, is _that_ what I did?” Loki laughed. “Well, you certainly looked _ravishing_ when you tried to hit on that young maiden. I wonder how long it will take until the gossip dies down . . . a day, a week, a month? You certainly would deserve it for bringing me a failing grade by stealing my books! Tell me, Thor, when did you learn how to read?”

“Does Father know you were reading smut?”

“Those were perfectly acceptable literary novels! Why don’t you _spell_ ‘smut’, Brother? I wonder who would get into more trouble: me for studying literary classics or you for attempting to make the pages stick together? You are nothing more than a pervert.”

“Oh, says the boy that made me appear _naked_ before a tavern filled with people! The illusion was rather precise . . . have you been spying on me when I bathe? You knew the curve, the grooming choices, the freckle low on my -! If I told Father, I think he would soon forget that I stole those bloody books. They were awful, by the way. You can keep them.”

“I don’t want them now your greasy hands were over them!”

“Well, then I shall just go touch that new cloak of yours.”

“You would not dare! I _earned_ that cloak.”

“Try and stop me, Trickster!”

Odin massaged his temples, while Loki threw the first punch. A searing pain worked its way through his skull, as he heard the two teenagers resume shouting and kicking and lunging, and he both yearned to intervene and desired to leave. He thought to Hela . . . _constant criticism and attention, inevitable rebellion and explosions_. . . Odin clenched his hands into tight fists, while he let out a low exhale of breath and shook his head.

A loud laugh from below was soon silenced. Thor rammed a hand against Loki’s throat, holding so tight that Loki was lifted a good inch from the ground with toes scratching at the dirt for desperate purchase, but the smile never once left his lips as he laughed again. A spark of _seiðr_ ran through the air. Thor leaned ever closer, panting for breath and red in the face, while Loki fell silent at last and swallowed hard, and he was slowly lowered to the ground until Thor pressed his forehead against Loki and shared in his breath . . .

“Enough,” commanded Odin.

Thor pursed and bit at his lips, before – with a heaved sigh – he let go of Loki. The two remained impossibly close, enough that Odin struggled to hold back the bile that rose in the back of his throat, and he flared his nostrils at the sickening thought that something more could cross between them. It was beyond even consideration . . . _incest_. . . Odin breathed low and deep, while he cast his eyes over Thor and Loki. The shadow of Hela remained in the back of his mind, as he looked to the black-haired part-Jotun so alike to Odin in nature.

If it were Hela in Loki’s place, he would have been more lenient. He would have recommended she work off her anger in the training yard, perhaps drank in some tavern or spent time with her latest conquest, and – by morning – discussed calmly the importance of building civil relationships with peers and colleagues. Odin bit into his lip . . . _blood warm on his hands, screams of the damned piercing his ears_ . . . Odin spat out:

“Do not provoke your brother, Loki.”

“He is the one who started it by –”

“ _I do not care who started it_!” Odin shouted. “You two are brothers. There will come a time where I shall not be here to prevent you from trading blows, as such you must learn to mediate your own disagreements, and I expected more from one with a silver tongue.”

Loki winced and stood with mouth open. A stab of guilt ran through Odin, as he bent forward an imperceptible amount and drew in a deep breath, but – even as Loki finally pursed his lips into a tight line and winced – he knew it was for the best to prevent any future acts of violence. Odin stood tall and brought his hands to his sides, while he caught the smirk that Thor wore and held back the urge to chastise him in turn. Odin said in a low voice:

“I shall return to my rooms, but I warn you both –”

“No more fighting,” muttered Thor.

Odin cast a warning eye to both sons. They remained still and beside each other, while Loki nursed the bruise on his neck and Thor hung his shoulders with battered pride, and he half-anticipated that there would soon be raised voices, as they gossiped and complained about Odin’s harsh intervention. He turned around and returned to the bedroom, where Frigga stood leaning against the headrest with a sultry smile in gratitude for his actions, and – as he prepared to drop his nightgown – he heard laughter from Thor and Loki in unison . . .

* * *

Loki jumped away from the bed. The state of his clothes spoke of his misdeeds . . . fly down to expose parts of his anatomy indecent to any eyes, with chest bared to reveal skin flushed red with apparent bite-marks, and hair mussed with stray locks about his face . . . Loki clamoured over to the pile of clothes and clawed at the wrinkled fabrics. He muttered odd complaints, while Thor – naked and covered in a sweat – clawed at the stained sheets and brought them high to cover his crotch, while he incoherently mumbled stray words.

_Fury raged through Odin._

The only sound was the race of his heart. Odin struggled to draw in enough breaths, as his trembling hands turned into tight fists, and the rush of adrenaline through his veins filled him with a light-headed sensation of desperate energy . . . brimming, brewing . . . a need to lash out on those that so sinned. Thor was frightened. It was the first time seeing fear in the eyes of the warrior, who appeared on the brink of tears, even as Thor choked out:

“Father, it is not what you think.”

Odin remained silent, as Loki scrambled to dress. The bedroom reeked of sweat and the familiar scent from his own rooms after a night of romance, but that association was not worthy of the thought . . . _it was impossible_. He screwed shut his eye again, as Loki – now dressed – stumbled over to the dressing room adjacent, while the sound of rummaging clothes echoed about the bedroom with slithers of silks and the crinkle of cotton, and Odin reopened his eyes to ask no one in particular, as a tear threatened to fall:

“What do I think?”

“I would not know what you assume,” lied Loki. “You can clearly see that we were simply trying on outfits for the ambassadorial ball next week, but you wear an expression as if we have somehow done some wrong. If you disapprove of Thor’s nude state, you can rest assured that I have told him that it might raise a few eyebrows, as such I settled on _this_.”

Loki walked brusquely into the bedroom, as he tossed a red cape toward Thor. It was followed by a formal shirt and trousers, along with some ornamental armour, and – as Thor quickly worked on dressing his most vital parts beneath the sheets – Odin furrowed his brow and bit deep into his lip. He tasted iron. It was indeed possible that this seemingly indecent union was simply a brotherly exercise in helping each other pick an outfit, but even though it was a stretch of faith . . . he wanted to believe it true. Loki asked in a soft whisper:

“Why do you never care about me?”

Odin rapidly blinked. He cast his gaze to Loki and saw Loki dressed in formal attire, with head low and arms folded across his toned chest, and no longer could he fool himself into believe that this was the babe in his arms or the boy on his lap or the teenager at his side, but instead this was a grown man with ambitions and desires and opinions. Loki slowly raised his head with trembling lips, breaking the awkwardness between them with a question almost a non-sequitur. Odin said nothing. Thor climbed out of bed to finish dressing. Loki continued:

“You will criticise and chastise me for any perceived flaw. You will silence me any time I speak in Thor’s defence. Still, when I _truly_ do wrong -? You say nought! I do everything in my power to gain your attention and love, but you will turn your back on me and act as if I have done nothing until I have done too much to ignore. Why will you not _punish_ me?”

“Is there anything here that I must punish?”

“No, Father,” quickly said Thor. “I have found an outfit for the ball. I am not sure why I asked for fashion advice from one who dresses like a witch, but it seems he has found me the perfect ensemble. I shall finish changing now. Thank you, Loki.”

Loki and Odin locked eyes. It was practically an admission from Loki, one in which he would have to address were he to choose to believe its content, and yet were things what they seemed . . . it would mean losing a son . . . another child gone. Odin lifted his head high, as he considered Loki’s confession. The world between them hung in the balance, as son desired for consistent boundaries and rules, while father yearned only not to repeat past mistakes and keep both boys by his side forever. Thor offered him an out. It would work.

Odin purposely cast his gaze to Thor, as he feigned a smile and made an offhand comment about the red of the cape failing to match the silver of the accents. A visible sag of the shoulders followed, as Thor let out a staggered breath of relief and smiled, but Loki only pursed his lips and turned away with arms tight about his chest. One son content. One son betrayed. Odin walked to the doors without meeting their eyes, as he said in a loud voice:

“I shall leave you in peace, then.”

* * *

_Odin snatched at Thor’s ankle._

_Every muscle in his body seared in pain, while his joints burned and ached. He fought to hold onto the leather of the boot, even as he focused every ounce of strength and his limbs trembled, but he held tight and screwed shut his eyes in concentration. The coldness of the abyss below washed over him, chilling him to the bone. He looked down to Thor. He looked beyond to Loki. Gungnir served as the only tie between them._

_A cold terror consumed him. Loki stared with eyes and wet eyes, with lips parted and cheeks pale, and – as Odin swallowed back the bile and blood – every vein in his body grew like ice, while a sweat broke over his flesh like icy water from the depths of the sea. A spark flashed between them. Odin knew. It was something primal and dark, enough that he could barely give it word, but he knew . . . he knew that this would be the choice between life and death. It took all his self-control to continue to hold on . . . to fight his instinct to let go . . ._

_He saw Hela in that instant, with black hair slicked back and stark white skin sharp against the inky darkness, and the seconds felt like minutes . . . time stopped . . . the fatigue grew only worse when the missing piece in his heart grew ever deeper, and he closed his eye in order to erase the sight from mind. It only grew every stronger. He reopened his eyes again to see a tear fall down Loki’s cheek and deep into the void, where Loki finally found his voice._

_‘I could have done it, Father,’ cried Loki._

_The illusion of an Asgardian form barely held together. It shook and shimmered, imperceptible to most eyes and yet clear to Odin, and what was clearer still were the tearstains that marred otherwise perfect skin. Loki was stoic. Loki emulated Odin from an early age and rarely expressed emotion, lest pushed to breaking point, and here he was indifferent to what those around him thought, as he held onto life by a mere grip. If he were Asgardian, the sweat from his hand would have already cast him into death. Loki screamed:_

_‘I could have done it! For you . . . for all of us.’_

_Everything would fall on what came next. A thousand words echoed through Odin’s mind, as he scrambled for the right combination of words to unlock what remained of Loki, and – as the silence continued for far too long – he saw how Loki changed his expression. A flicker of horror. A dawning resignation. Odin knew that any criticism would be seen as rejection, and rejection would be the damnation of them all as Loki lost hope._

_‘Come back to me, Loki,’ pleaded Odin._

_A spark of recognition. Odin took the chance to lift Thor onto the bridge, where – with a huge groan of relief – he rolled onto his back and gasped for breath, while Thor lifted Gungnir high and snatched at Loki before he could change his mind. The next few seconds were a blur, but Odin soon realised all three men lay on the bridge panting for breath with various tears and laughter borne from relief, while Thor muttered over and over to Loki incoherent words._

_Loki wept, even as the smoking wreckage of the Bifrost lay before them. The sounds of his cries cut deep to the quick, breaking something deep inside that brought Odin to his feet, and – as he stumbled over to Loki – the pain grew ever deeper and tears broke at the corner of his eye as he shook his head over and over. Loki curled in on himself, hysterical in his outburst. It was difficult to see him in such a state. Odin knelt at his side and touched his trembling shoulder, while he squeezed and signalled to Thor to get help. A tear fell._

_‘You are my son, Loki,’ swore Odin. ‘My son.’_

* * *

“How does Loki cope, Thor?”

Odin eased his body beside Thor. The stone bench was uncomfortable underneath his buttocks, now more bone than muscle with the growing years, and – as he winced – he strove to keep his back straight and head held high. He cast blurry eyes towards the doors of the infirmary, while he fought the urge to rest after what may have been his final Odinsleep. The hall was warm and humid, enough to bring a sweat to his Jotun skin beneath the illusion.

Thor sat with legs spread and hands clasped between them, as he stared at the floor and occasionally rolled his ankle to ward off an ache, and Odin winced to realise it was likely heavily bruised from his tumble over the bridge. A low beam of light came in through the open windows, while the sun slowly rose and the guards changed shifts, and – with a clink of armour and muttered exchanges of reports – the hall no longer felt so empty or abandoned, but without Loki . . . something was still amiss. Thor heaved a long sigh.

“The healers say Loki may be able to leave the infirmary in upcoming weeks,” said Thor. “I – I did not know how close he came to death! What broke so irrevocably between us that he nearly chose death, save for a few words from our father? Did I bring him to this point?”

Thor buried his face into his hands. The guards resumed their positions, while the previous shift marched in unison towards the barracks, and Odin remained quiet as he heard quick footsteps run to and fro inside, while Frigga’s voice echoed into the hall around them. He admired how she stayed at Loki’s side the entire night, even a stab of envy pierced his heart, and he blinked back tears as he fought the urge to go to Loki’s side. Odin lifted a hand and stared at the wrinkles marked by time, while he flexed arthritic fingers.

The memories of Hela were strong . . . _‘have I made you proud, Father?’_. . . both children seeking desperately for his approval, as both children broke under the pressure, and a cold laugh escaped his lips as he screwed shut his eyes. He clenched his fist until veins stood out like ropes, while he drew in a deep hiss of breath. Odin reopened his eyes to see Thor staring at him with concern. He could only grunt in response and shrug with a wince.

“You were not the one to fail Loki,” whispered Odin.

Thor scoffed and made his way to the windows. He pressed his hands on the sill, while his blue eyes gazed out over the infirmary gardens beyond, and – as Odin followed him to stand by his side – he caught sight of Loki with Eir on a far bench. The two appeared deep in conversation, while tears stained Loki’s cheeks and his lips trembled, but there was also a spark of lucidity that brought hope. It appeared he responded well to talking therapies.

“We did not fail him,” said Thor. “He is still here.”

“Aye, but it was my lies that brought him to this point.” Odin lowered his head. “I very nearly said ‘no, Loki’ . . . I very nearly denied my son for his heinous acts, and I dread to think how it would feel to lose another child . . . to watch him fall into the abyss, knowing that I could have stopped it and knowing that his blood was on my hands.”

“Loki did not let go. We must remember that fact.” Thor ran his hands over his face. “Do you think about it, too? I told him that I will accept him. I told him that his Jotun blood does not make him any less of an Asgardian. Still, I saw the look in his eyes as he was escorted to the infirmary . . . _it was sheer emptiness_. He was so jealous of me that he sent the Destroyer, nearly killing me when he only intended to incapacitate me. What did I do to him?”

“He still will not say what created such animosity?”

“I think I know in my heart,” whispered Thor. “He spent a lifetime in our shadows, always trying to be treated the same as me and stand as my equal, and – even if you could not do that much – _I_ should have been able to provide that bear minimum. I so often silenced him. I so often coerced him into actions he disapproved. Even when he was given leave to rule, our friends ignored his orders and he lived with the weight of your lies alone . . .

“I love him, Father. Why did I not stop to question his desires? He was forced to let loose Jotuns into our treasury, for you would not listen to him. He was forced to accompany me to Jotunheim, for I would not listen to his objections! Now the healers listen to him; perhaps for the first time in his life, _someone is listening_. He does not now how to react to that.”

Odin chanced a look back into the gardens. It was true, Loki did not know how to react. He would spontaneously burst out into tantrums on a whim, while other times he broke into tears, and other times he would be calm and curious, as Eir listened with a non-judgemental expression to every word and every sound. Odin smiled, as he leaned against the sill. He wondered how much Loki had expressed in little more than a night, while a terrible part of him feared the healers could have helped Hela in turn, and a tear soon ran down his cheek.

“I should have done more,” said Odin.

A tremor to his hands betrayed his emotion, as Loki collapsed to his knees before Eir, and – as Eir lowered herself a few seconds later – he watched another embrace the son that should have been embraced by the father. A cool breeze brushed through the hall, while Thor turned his back on the scene in the gardens. Thor paced and forth. The sound of his sobs broke the quiet between them, while he buried his head into his hands, and Odin swallowed hard.

“I will visit Loki,” swore Odin.

“The healers have given him medicines.” Thor paused in his pacing. “They say it will take some weeks for them to take full effect, but that they will work with Loki in cognitive therapy in the meantime. Mother has not left the infirmary. I believe he will heal, while I shall visit him every day in what he has dubbed his ‘cell’. I will not abandon him.”

“Thor, I strove to be strict with Loki out of fear of what leniency would achieve. It seems my intentions were good in nature, but yet still wielded the worst result imaginable . . . I have seen lenience lead to destruction, but only strictness can lead to _self_ -destruction.”

“He is not destroyed yet, as such he may still recover.”

“Yet I fear he will forever hate me.”

Odin turned and patted Thor’s shoulder. He allowed his hand to linger with a squeeze, while he opened and closed his mouth in search of some words to comfort, but – as Thor turned his head – Odin pressed tight his lips and fell silent . . . there was nothing more to be said. Odin dropped his hand, while he listened to the sounds beyond. Frigga sighed and talked in the infirmary itself, through the offset main doors, while in the infirmary he could almost fool himself into believing that there was laughter from Loki at last. Odin pleaded:

“Stay with him, Thor. Please.”

A low grunt was his only response. A tear rolled down Thor’s cheek, until it struck at his lip where it was licked away, and Odin knew that this was a pain that ran deeper than simply empathy for a sibling, but he came too close to losing so much that confronting the issue was beyond his comprehension. Odin stepped back, before he walked down the hallways towards the private quarters. The last thing he heard was the audible sobs of his eldest son.

* * *

The bed dipped as Frigga crawled beside him; warm arms wrapped around his waist, while soft lips pressed dozens of kisses to his neck, and – rolling over – he faced the beautiful smile that so often brought joy to his heart even in the darkest of times. It was difficult to see through the candlelight, especially with his remaining eye cloudy and blurred with age, but he could make out the important features . . . the glitter to her eyes, the rosiness to her cheeks, and the way her hair cascaded down her neck . . . Frigga whispered:

“Loki is finally regaining his sense of self.”

Odin sighed in relief, as he brought his hands to her cheeks. A gentle hold brought a gentle hum from her lips, while he leaned closer and kissed her with great affection, but pulled back before she could truly reciprocate and they could distract themselves from a truly necessary conversation. Odin let a tear fall. The overwhelming emotion was finally able to find release, as she stroked at his grey hair and held his free hand between them.

“I cannot rewrite history,” whispered Odin.

A heavy weight fell on his stomach, much like a physical blow, and it was comforted only by Frigga pressing her body flush against him, while she tightened her grip on his hand and held it squeezed between their chests. He smiled as Frigga brushed back the tears, before kissing along the trails left and pressing her forehead to him with another low him, and he soon embraced her with his free arm and entwined their legs with a staggered sigh. The candlelight flickered and sent strange shadows over the room. Frigga asked in a quiet whisper:

“What do you mean, Husband?”

“I mean that I must be honest with Loki,” said Odin. “I must tell him about his heritage. He knows that he is the blood of Laufey, even if he is my son, but he does not know that his mother and I share blood . . . he does not know that he is still mine in all ways. It may provide him a comfort to know that he is not alone, that I endured as he endures . . .

“The sleep overtook me before I could tell him the truth, but since then . . . I do not know . . . _I do not know . . ._ I am the Asgardian king whose approval he craved, as well as the man he loved and respected, and so to tell him that I am a _Jotun_ -? He hates them, Frigga. Will he still see me as the father to love? Will he still see me as a king to respect? I have lost one child and nearly lost another. I could not bear to lose him as I lost my mother.”

“Tell him that, Husband.” Frigga squeezed at his hand. “Did you lose me for what was beyond your control? You are a brave and kind-hearted man, but one whose mistakes were borne from a desire to be better and to protect those he so loved. You meant well.”

“It was not enough to keep Bestla in my life.”

Odin gently extricated himself from her embrace. He slid his legs from the bed, as the cool air struck at his bare legs beneath his nightshirt, and he walked towards the _en suite_ where a large bath was still filled with cold water and melting ice cubes. It would not be as cold as he so desired, but it would be close enough to colder climes to sate his discomfort. He wondered whether Bestla took such baths in Asgard. Odin shucked the nightshirt from his body and dropped it behind him, even as Frigga slowly followed and asked:

“What else plagues your mind?”

Frigga sat with folded legs at the edge of the bath, while Odin sank into the waters until they reached his neck, and – briefly slipping under the water – he re-emerged with hair slick against his skull and ice running from his face to wash away his tears. Bestla was barely a memory, only a blue blur with vaguely discernible features, and already he felt superior to her in his treatment of Loki, yet it was not enough. It was not enough to protect his son simply to be present. Odin laughed and leaned back, as Frigga brushed his wet hair.

“I fear I have been a bad father,” whispered Odin.

“What makes you say that, my love?”

“I was too lenient with Hela, which led to her demise.” Odin drew in a shuddered breath. “I strove to do all that I could never to repeat that mistake, while loathing seeing myself in Loki and seeking to temper that side of him. . . I did not want him to become Hela, but – more than that – I did not want for him to become _me_. Instead, I have wrought hell upon him. He believed himself to be unloved and struggles to accept his identity. I did that.”

“You also gave him infinite love and support.”

“Yet not enough to undo the years of distance and neglect.”

The waters sloshed about the bath; moonlight shone through the open balcony doors, where – for the first time since their courtship – he allowed the _seiðr_ to fade, and blue skin soon turned almost black in the darkness, as Frigga continued to stroke at his hair. It was as if there was no change to his form . . . no horror, no surprise, no disgust . . . Frigga continued her small intimacies and even increased them by moving behind him, so that she could massage his shoulders and rub deep at the knots increased by stress. Odin murmured:

“I swear I shall put matters right.”

He groaned as she pressed deep on a large knot, as his head lolled in response and she removed a hand only long enough to drop her nightdress, and – casting an eye to her form – he smiled to see that age had only improved on what was already perfection. Every line and every scar was a reminder of time spent together, enough that it only added onto the love he experienced, and his only regret was that she could not slide into the waters beside him.

“I fear losing him, Frigga,” said Odin.” I cannot lose him.”

“You will not lose him, Husband. I promise you.”

Odin laughed in response, although it did little to hide his tears. He remained quiet as his breath broke into small sobs, even as the water drained and Frigga eventually climbed into the emptying tub with a hiss of pain at the remaining waters, and soon – with a hummed tune – she brushed at his blue skin to remove the dampness. Frigga only stopped when she reached his face, where she returned to her usual method of kissing away every tear, and he continued to laugh through his cries even as she cuddled against him. Frigga swore again:

“You will not lose Loki . . .”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Loki, my son . . .”

Odin sat beside the sofa. The chair was comfortable, although the arms were stiff and forced one to sit upright, and he knew – with unfortunate regret – it was an item of furniture designed for aesthetic purposes and not practical usage. Loki reclined on the sofa with hands clasped across his chest, as he gazed up at the mural on the ceiling, while a pile of books and parchments lay scattered on the floor beside him. He clearly occupied his mind.

The room was otherwise in immaculate condition; a few piece of glass lay in strange places, indicating the previous attempts to destroy his rooms, but – otherwise – it was like no outbursts ever took place. Odin noticed a few stray items of clothing, clearly belonging to Thor, along with a handful of furs hunted by Thor in his youth and formerly on display in his rooms, but he held his tongue and said nothing about their presence. He drew in a deep breath and licked at his lips, as he asked in a voice strained with concern:

“How do you feel?”

Loki rolled his eyes with a scoff. The colour was returned to his cheeks, but large bags still appeared beneath his eyes from a lack of sleep, and there was conflict there . . . apparent even despite the illusion cast of a stoic Asgardian . . . Odin saw how his muscles tensed and lips pursed. The flesh would be Jotun now, as the blood magic lay broken by the casket, and yet he still adorned himself in thick leathers and layers, enough that a sweat surely would have broken on his skin. Odin lowered his head and remained silent.

“I am coping,” said Loki.

It was a vague response. Loki refused to make eye contact, even after those few months since his fall from the Bifrost, and Odin held his hands together to avoid the tremble becoming perceptible, even as he desired to break the ensuing silence. The urge to chastise him for his actions fought against the urge to promise him everything would be better, while his heart pounded loud in his ears and his mouth ran dry. Odin whispered:

“I am sorry for the lies told.”

“No, you are sorry you were _caught_ ,” said Loki. “It has been difficult these part three months, Father. I am striving to process my Jotun heritage, but it would be foolish to forget that we live in a world that despises the Jotun race, while people judge me harshly for an attempted act of genocide even if that _pales_ to the millions killed under your reign. I find it unfair.”

“You still seek to make recompense for your crimes?”

“If only to assuage people’s concerns and fight the stigma that I bear,” muttered Loki. “The Jotuns likely know I have no care for them, but my actions also reflect on them. I struggle with this conflict . . . I struggle to know I am a part of them and they a part of me.”

Odin winced. He ran the pad of his thumb over his hand, where the ridges of his skin could be found beneath the illusion, and he remembered vaguely the words of his mother as a child . . . ‘ _each time rage as a Jotun, every other Jotun rages with you_ ’ . . . only now did he see the truth, that each Jotun was the voice of their people in such a backward realm. If Loki were to be revealed as a Jotun, it was possible his act of violence would be seen as typical of their kind. He would not be trusted. Odin closed his eyes and said:

“I know that struggle, Loki.”

Loki scoffed and pulled himself upright. He nudged the books with his foot, until one fell from the pile and landed with its covers down and a few pages folded, and a miniature portrait fell out with the painted figure of a blond-haired person. Loki noticed Odin’s gaze, but kicked the painting underneath the sofa. Loki stood and cricked his neck, before he wandered across the room toward the balcony doors. He leaned against them and looked out over the landscape, where the burning sun poured over the horizon. Loki whispered:

“How can you understand what it means to be a Jotun?”

“Loki, do you remember stories of your grandmother Bestla?” Odin pursed and licked his lips. “History was rewritten many times over the millennia, as such our family secrets have stayed hidden, but what you were not told is that Bestla was Jotun in nature . . . I am half-Jotun. It is something I hoped never to reveal, as I lived in shame and despair. I have no right to hide it further. You need to know that you do not endure this alone, Loki. You are not alone.”

“You lie, Father. _You lie_. I am to believe the Asgardian king to be a Jotun?”

“I can easily prove it, Loki. I bear the same illusion as you.”

Odin lifted a trembling hand. The bristle of _seiðr_ washed over his flesh, until – with a slow transition – white flesh took on a blue tinge . . . _ridges grew raised, blue became prominent . . ._ cold dread stabbed at his chest, as his heart skipped a beat and his blood ran like ice through every vein. He fought the air for breath. It was difficult to lock eyes with Loki, especially with the white now red and pupils barely visible, but he forced himself to raise his head and feign the confidence expected from him as a king and father.

Loki widened his eyes, as he stumbled toward the chair. The horror was beyond comprehension. Odin swallowed back the bile in his throat, as his eyes watered and he feared a loss of control, but then – as Loki came toward him – there was something beyond his expression that spoke of something deeper than an instinctual racism. Odin drew in a deep breath and feigned a smile, as Loki collapsed onto the sofa. He whispered:

“I know this may come as a surprise –”

“Thor and I have been sleeping together,” blurted Loki.

The words spilled fast and thick. Odin opened his mouth with wordless sighs, as he returned the illusion of his Asgardian form, and his mind raced with thousands of thoughts and questions and emotions, each more extreme and puzzling than the last. He struggled to process his shock, even as tears spilled from Loki’s eyes and his son leaned toward him with hands clasped together as if in prayer. Loki begged an answer to the serious question:

“If he is a quarter Jotun, can he be pregnant?”

The world stopped. Life ceased. A sense of dread crashed through Odin, as he realised his primal fear had been for Loki’s pregnancy, and instead Thor . . . _strong, independent, fearsome_ . . . would bear the weight of a stigma still prevalent into modern times. Loki was used to such cruel words from others, all for bearing the love of _seiðr_ and studies, but Thor had only ever experienced praise from those around him, and Odin knew that this new burden would crush him beneath the weight of current events. He could find no words.

* * *

“I am part Jotun,” Thor muttered.

Loki grasped at callused hands; Thor bent forward with tears brimming in his eyes, while he gasped for breath and sought to process the knowledge of his heritage, even as he constantly pulled away to touch at his stomach. Loki held him once more. It was an intimate series of gestures, as they constantly moved individually and collectively, and Thor only relaxed once Loki touched at his cheeks and brushed away the tears. Long fingers held his head firmly in place, while thumbs stroked at his jaw with rhythmic movements. Loki choked out:

“Do not worry, Thor. Father knows I am the father.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Thor pushed aside those soft hands, as he jumped to his feet and marched across the antechamber toward Odin, and – with hands pressed together in a pleading gesture – paled until his skin grew sickly and sallow. He swayed a little where he stood, even as Loki jumped to his feet and ran to his side with hands poised ready to hold him, and his wide eyes fixated on Odin with tears shimmering over the contracted pupils.

“Father, I can explain,” swore Thor. “We were –”

Odin lifted a hand and shook his head. Thor immediately tensed his muscles and jerked back his head, as his throat visibly contracted with a large swallow, and – as his mouth contorted on the verge of sobbed cries – a wave of pity washed over Odin. He pressed a hand to Thor’s shoulder and gently guided him toward the stone benches outside of the infirmary, before he sat beside him and drew in a deep breath. A loud exhale punctuated the air. Loki knelt on the floor before them and rested his head on Thor’s lap, as Thor stared off into space.

“There are more important matters,” said Odin.

“More important than brotherly incest, it seems,” teased Loki.

“This is no joking matter.” Odin ignored Loki. “Thor, it is as I said. This means that you _may_ have inherited the Jotun reproductive system. The Jotuns are capable of being inseminated, due to a unique aspect of their physiology that contains a flap of skin in the upper rectum, and – on arousal – this skin moves to block waste and allow seed to flood the womb.

“It was something explained to me in my adolescence, although I never was one to experiment as my peers experimented, and I am happy to say that I have only ever experienced such love with your mother, but it was a knowledge I always carried with me. I never thought it would impact my sons. I half-suspected there to be something between you, but I always thought you would stop short of allowing one to become an . . . _ergi_.”

“Father,” pleaded Thor. “I honestly never meant –”

“I cannot pretend that I am disappointed, as I wanted more for both of you, but I also must state that I love you both just as much today as the day you were born. My only concern is that Loki has said this specific form of consummation has been going on since your coronation, which means that there is every chance – without contraceptive measures – you could be with child. You could carry in your womb the next heir.”

Thor dropped his head forward. He buried his face into his hands, while he drew in a staggered breath, and the seconds drifted by into the longest minutes of their lives, until – throwing back his body – he stared aimlessly up at the ceiling, and a broken sob escaped his lips. Loki climbed beside him and this time made no contact. They both knew that this was a breaking point . . . Thor was the sort to need space when overwhelmed, enough that Loki avoided eye contact and spoke with a voice too low to be easily heard:

“You have been sick lately, Thor.”

A small grunt was the only response. Thor jerked his body away from Loki, as he climbed to his feet and paced the antechamber with head cast low. Odin remained quiet, as he saw hands clench and unclench until veins bulged on his forearms, and Loki simply fidgeted with his fingers and picked at his skin with pursed lips. The tension was thick around them. Odin closed his eyes for a brief few seconds, until he muttered out:

“What illness is this of which you speak?”

“Thor has experienced dizzy spells,” said Loki. “There have been fainting episodes, too. I simply assumed low blood pressure or a low blood sugar, but he has avoided the healers and continued to fight and train and spar. Do you think it could be an unborn child?”

“What if it is a child?” Thor asked. “Are there any risks with a child of mixed heritage? I know that Loki is in perfect health, while you have always been strong and well, but . . . is your health the rule or the exception? Do I need to be aware of any automatic genetic abnormalities? Do I need to be concerned for how I trained? I could not bear to know damage was done to my child, simply as I had not forsaken battle for some time.”

“We do not yet know there is a child,” replied Odin. “Let us take things one matter at a time, Thor. If there is a child, there are no risks from the intermingling of Jotun and Asgardian blood, and your _seiðr_ will have protected the child from minor blows. If you are pregnant, you will have to refrain from battle at this point forward. You shall be fine.”

“And what of this child? I am too young to be a father! I know not how I can explain to them that they are borne from a forbidden union, or how Loki and I will split any responsibilities, and what will be their place in these realms? Will they inherit the Jotun crown?”

“Let us take one thing at a time, Thor.”

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks. The doors to the infirmary opened, as Eir stood with notes clasped to her chest and a passive expression, but the rush of light only cast further shadows on Thor’s face and made the tearstains shimmer. Loki slowly stood. He walked towards Thor with deliberate steps, with hands raised in a gesture of surrender, and he stopped a few feet from Thor with a strained smile, until Thor turned to him and completely unravelled under the pressure. He looked broken. Vulnerable.

“I am too young to do this,” said Thor.

It was painful to watch, as Odin stood and came toward him. He clasped a hand on Thor’s shoulder, even as Thor buried his face into the crook of Loki’s neck and held tight against the lapels of his shirt, and Loki – not used to being the pillar of strength – widened his eyes and struggled to find words to provide a comfort. Odin nodded slowly to him. Loki swallowed and screwed shut his eyes, before finally earnestly embracing Thor with tears in turn.

* * *

_Thor collapsed onto the chair. He slumped backward, with every muscle limp and loose, while Eir continued to poke and prod in response, until satisfied his reaction was emotional and not borne from any ill cause. The bright lights of the holographic images and machines flickered about the room, while Loki paced with muttered curses and complaints, and time seemed to stand still as Thor ran his hands over his bearded face. He choked out:_

_“There must be a mistake.”_

_He flung himself forward, even as he practically doubled over. A hand came to rest on his stomach, as long fingers brushed against the skin taut and rounded beneath the fabric of his shirt, and – even with eyes blocked from sight – it was clear he stared at the growing stomach with wide-eyed wonder. Odin struggled to sit beside Thor; joints burned with the creaking pain of old age, while his muscle ached in protest about the constant movement._

_It took all his strength to reach out, as he dropped his hand onto Thor’s hand, and he squeezed with brief memories of his boys in childhood, where every hurt could be fixed with a kiss or a kind word. There was no easy fix in this situation. The skin was warm like any other Asgardian, as well as smooth on the outside with no ridges or marks, and he barely moved even as Eir knelt before him, with her hand stroking through his blond locks. The tears soon stopped, as they made way for laughter and snarls. Thor locked eyes with Eir._

_“Read the results again,” spat Thor._

_The eyes were bloodshot with bags beneath, while his lip trembled. Eir continued to run her hands through his hair, until tears spilled once more and he choked on his cries, and he snatched his hand away from Odin, only to desperately grab at Eir’s shoulder. It was far from a violent gesture, but it spoke a great deal of his emotional state. Eir simply cast her eyes back to the papers, before nodding to him with a whispered:_

_“You are pregnant, Prince Thor.”_

* * *

“Why did you hide this from us?”

Loki closed the bedroom door. It clicked loud enough to echo out about the corridor, while the guards kept silent on either side at full attention, and – as Odin lowered his head – he listened out for any further sounds from inside Thor’s bedroom. The sobs had descended, along with the tantrums that left tables upended and ornaments smashed, but the silence only grew more uncomfortable for all that was left unspoken. Loki choked out:

“ _Why_?”

Odin sighed, as he gently gestured towards the lounge. He walked at a slow pace, while Loki followed fast behind with a curled lip and eyes black with bags, and the guards saluted in turn as the passed each and every one. No words were exchanged until doors were opened before them; servants squeaked out apologies in sight of them, before they dashed away and left them alone in the large room, and a strange silence fell about them with out the cawing of the ravens outside to provide any sound. Odin confessed in a whisper:

“I was ashamed, Loki.”

“Ashamed as you were of me?” Loki scoffed. “I always wondered why you treated Thor and me so differently! I have spent these past three months desperately wondering why you would hide this from me, but now I know. You were ashamed of me! You hated the Jotuns so much that you could not even abide a son with Jotun blood. Why? Why take me?

“You taught me that the very blood in my veins belongs to monsters. Is it that you still felt something for your people? Is that what this is about? Was I a misguided attempt at making amends or keeping connected to a part of your race? You should have killed me that day! I – I – I should be _dead_. . . that you would leave me this shell of a man, stained and tainted -? Ah, those do not seem the actions of a father to me. Why do this to me?”

Odin sat on a nearby chair. He winced as pain coursed through him, but said nothing and strove to find a comfortable position nestled in the many cushions. Loki paced back and forth, back and forth, while he buried his hands into his hair and yanked until tears prickled the corners of his eyes, and – finally – he allowed his vulnerable side to be exposed in the absence of one that needed him for support. Odin waited until Loki finally stopped, while his hands fell to his sides and he visibly swallowed with tears spilling down his cheeks.

“My mother abandoned me, Loki,” whispered Odin. “I spent a great deal of my childhood longing for her return, while always blaming myself through a lack of answers, and – even now – I will sometimes get moments of absolute despair, as the old wound reminds me that it will never heal. I blame myself less. I love myself more. Still, in my mind I wonder what I did to push her away and why unconditional love was apparently so conditional.

“I saw you alone . . . distressed . . . it brought back a well of fears. There was no way I could turn my back on you in need, lest I become the mother who left me so conflicted, and – even now – I both love and hate her in equal measure, ever yearning for her approval. I never wanted you to experience those emotions. I wanted for things to be better for you.

“I thought – by lying to you – that you would believe yourself to be mine, as such you would never feel that sense of rejection that comes from knowing you were unwanted, because it does not matter what any other person thinks of you . . . what matters is what _you_ think of yourself. I do not care if you hate me, Loki. I protected you and stopped you from experiencing what I experienced, so I will consider my lies to be a success on all fronts.”

Odin kept his head low, even as Loki fell quiet and sat beside him. The ravens flew away, even as the moonlight shone through the windows and cast shadows about the floor at his feet, and – as Loki clasped his hands between his parted legs – Odin struggled to control his racing breaths and pounding heart. It was dark within the room, too much for his eyes to focus, and he fought to keep Loki in his vision, while Loki pursed and bit at his lips with a clear desire to speak something out of turn. A long minute passed until Loki asked:

“But why lie about _you_ being Jotun?”

It was the question Odin dreaded. Loki remained quiet, although his eyes fixated in a desperate desire for an answer that may never come, and his hands shook with an almost imperceptible tremble, as his lips quirked into a hopeful smile. The question lingered, even as Odin furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. He looked down to his hands. The ridges were clear to the touch, but hidden by the perfectly cast illusion. The truth was hidden.

“I did not want you to be ashamed,” whispered Odin.

“You hated a part of yourself even _knowing_ it was a part of me.”

“A lifetime of fear does not vanish merely for the birth of a child.” Odin shook his head. “If anything, my love for you only solidified my need to hide my heritage. Do you know what life was like for me? The children would not touch me, as they feared their skin would turn blue. My father would not look at me, as my eyes made him feel nauseous.”

“You endured such prejudice, but does that excuse you continuing those same prejudices? I cannot understand how you could allow for such beliefs to stand, even after having experienced them firsthand and knowing them to be unfair and false!”

“I was weak, Loki. I was not as strong as you, my son.”

Odin stood and walked to the drinks cabinet. He took two small glasses with a click and clatter of glass upon glass, while he poured the strongest drink that was in sight, and – with a dull a stab of guilt – he realise this was the first time sharing a private drink with either son. It brought back a memory of Hela, quickly shaken away with a forced smile. Odin raised a filled glass and signalled Loki to join him at his side. Loki came toward him.

“Did the Casket not break the spell on you?” Odin asked.

“I maintain my form with an illusion, Father.”

 _Seiðr_. Odin scoffed, as Loki stood a few feet at his side. The coldness from his flesh betrayed his Jotun heritage, enough that Odin yearned to reach out for an embrace, and he thought back to his childhood with a great fondness . . . _a story read chapter by chapter every night, a cold hug that was a relief to his flesh, and a quick kiss to his forehead_. . . Odin gripped at the glass until it cracked under the pressure. He grunted and downed the liquid, which burned his throat and left a bitter taste on his tongue. Odin asked in a low voice:

“Will you not drop this illusion?”

“Will you?”

A cold fear washed over Odin. He clenched too hard on the glass, which broke under his hold until shards dug into white flesh, but the blood – beading at the wound – stood almost black and was not beholden to the same illusion. The world would soon know the truth of his heritage, but he was unsure he was strong enough to face that same truth. He opened his hand. The remaining shards dropped to the floor with a shimmer of light, while they landed in a small pile with a few drops of black blood. Odin swallowed hard. It was time.

* * *

_The portrait of Bestla was a familiar sight. The blonde locks of hair cascaded down her shoulders, adding length to the column of neck, and her blue eyes burned against the canvas, made all the more vibrant against the bright background. Odin lifted a hand towards the crackling paint, only for the blue skin to stand stark against the pale flesh. He pulled back his hand with a small tremor. The servants by him took the gesture as a sign to commence._

_They removed the portrait with great respect, even as Odin strove to memorise its features, but the vague memories of his mother merged with the strong memories of the various portraits, until he feared he no longer could tell either apart. The new portrait was lifted into place; a Jotun clearly male in physique, with black hair curly as it fell loose about broad shoulders, and eyes red despite a fleck of blue unusual to the Jotun people. It completely changed history, including his perceptions of his father and the lies told. Odin whispered:_

_“Did you ever love me?”_

_He wondered how deep the lies ran. He wondered how Bestla withstood being ‘mother’ despite the male frame, especially in a realm with so many stigmas . . . so many judgements . . . the markings on the face were so similar to Loki, down to the very smallest details. Odin screwed shut his eyes to fight back a tear, as he smiled to think of the stolen portrait hidden away, and – without such a crime – no trace of Bestla may have existed. It brought him a connection to his past. It brought him a link to his other father._

_Odin brought a hand to his chest, as he drew in a staggered breath. There was no knowing what soul lay behind the visage of a Jotun man, just as there was no knowing what was shared and what was different, but the eternal question lingered: ‘why did he not want me?’ It was a question he would carry until the day he died. Odin rapidly blinked and let loose a long breath, while those red eyes watched him with an eerie awareness._

* * *

Loki wept with tears of joy. They ran down blue cheeks and dropped onto the floor before him, while his black hair lay slicked to his skull with sweat, and Odin – barely able to hold back tears in turn – stood and walked toward the infirmary doors. There was blood on Loki’s hand, as red stood out strong against black. There was panting deep inside the infirmary, while healers raced to and fro with blood-soaked sheets, and iron lay heavy in the air.

Odin reached out with blue hand to Loki’s shoulder, as Jotun comforted Jotun, and there was no greater relief than to see red eyes reflecting back the image of his red eyes in turn, as he laughed with sheer relief and squeezed at Loki with a smile. A loud cry echoed out inside. It pierced the infirmary and brought back so many memories . . . _joy, fear, awe_. . . Loki already jerked away, as his attention fell fully on the high-pitched sound, and Odin laughed to know so many nights to come would be spent smiling over a crib. He asked in a low voice:

“The child is healthy and well?”

Loki nodded over and over, while dazedly looking between doors and father. He loitered in the doorway, jumping from foot to foot, as he laughed and cried and wiped away the tears from his cheeks, while Odin struggled to walk ever closer with a slight limp. The idea of a grandchild at his age brought concern, as he knew he could not run after them or play with them as his body grew fatigued and weak, but he cherished knowing he had lived to see the heir of his sons. If he were lucky, he may even live to see the next.

“A boy,” choked Loki. “He looks Asgardian, but he is mine . . .”

“I felt that same pride when I first held you,” Odin reminisced. “I remember how fragile and vulnerable you were in my hands, knowing your life was my sole responsibility, and I swore that I would spend my life making sure no harm ever befell you, my son. Cherish this day. I know you think it is the best day of your life, but it will only get ever better.”

“Thor – he – I –” Loki laughed through his tears. “He was in such pain; I was afraid for him, guilty for seeing what he sacrificed for me, but then my son was born and all such fear and resentment and pain . . . it was gone! Thank you, Father. Thank you.”

“I do not understand why you thank me, Loki.”

“Thank you . . . for being my father.”

Odin nearly wept at such kind words. He opened his mouth wide, only for it to close as Frigga flung wide the doors and stood with a healing robe over her clothes, and – as she wiped her hands on an old cloth – he noticed how the childbirth took its toll on her fatigued form. Blonde locks clung to her neck and forehead, while her posture was far from perfect as she struggled to stand under the weight of her exhaustion. Frigga signalled them inside.

Loki raced as fast as able, while Odin dawdled behind with a few grunts. He massaged at his neck and winced with a murmured complaint, while Frigga guided him with a soft touch towards the bed set just away from the centre of the infirmary. The bed was in the same spot as all the previous centuries and millennia, as if nothing had changed aside from a lick of paint and some new sheets, but Thor . . . he looked exhausted. He rested limp on the sheets, panting for breath, while his skin was a deathly white and his lips dry and chapped.

A small bundle rested on his chest. Loki was already at his side, reaching out to stroke at the black hair of the small infant, and Thor simply hummed and nodded in response to an unspoken question, as Loki lifted them into his arms . . . _‘support the neck and protect the head’_. . . _‘I am no idiot, Brother’_. . . Odin laughed and took Frigga’s hand, as he squeezed tight and smiled as she cuddled against his arm with a murmured sigh.

“He still needs a name,” murmured Thor.

Loki bounced the boy against him; small bounces struck the mattress in turn, causing Thor to hiss in pain until Loki stood and slid into the chair beside the bed, and Odin smiled to see red eyes on the infant, as a clear marker of their Jotun blood. The skin was white, while the facial features were the spitting image of Thor in every way, but his eyes and hair . . . those were shared only with Loki, something just between father and son . . . Loki wept and kissed that black hair over and over. He soon stopped enough to whisper out:

“I will name him Hrym.”

“You would name him a Jotun name?” Thor asked.

“I may never fully accept my Jotun blood,” said Loki. “I do accept that my place is here with my family, which was nearly divided over lies and prejudice, and I hope – with all my heart – Hrym will grow to unite our two realms much as Father hoped I would achieve.”

“It will also honour his heritage and his forefathers before him.”

“He honours us enough by simply being here.”

Loki burst into tears once more, as he continued to kiss and fuss over Hrym. It was a beautiful sight, especially as he slid back onto the bed and cuddled beside Thor, and – despite there barely being enough room for Thor’s muscular form – they fit together in perfect unison, while Hrym lay on Thor’s chest with the hands of his fathers clasped on his back. Odin held Frigga close, as they watched the intimate scene unfold before them, and he knew that both men were owed a degree of privacy in their first family moment together. He turned to leave, but before he parted he said with great love and joy:

“I am proud of you, my sons.”

 

 


End file.
